A    PRIMER   OF   PSYCHOLOGY 


OF   PSYCHOLOGY 


BY 


EDWARD   BRADFORD  TITCHENER 


REVISED   EDITION 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 

1913 
A''  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  1899, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  January,   1898.     Reprinted,  October,  18 
Revised  edition  printed  September  November,  1899;  October,  1900 ; 
January,  1902  :  February    November,  1903  ;  July,  1904*  January, 
IC°5-  February,  1906;  September,  1907  ;  April,  1908;  March,  1909; 
February,  December,  1910  ;  April,  1912   ;  August,  1913. 


5T0  tfje  fHemotg  of 
THOMAS   HENRY  HUXLEY 


PREFACE  TO   SECOND   EDITION 

THE  text  of  this  second  edition  has  been  thor- 
oughly revised,  and,  I  hope,  considerably  improved. 
Sections  23,  37,  85,  87,  92,  and  in  have  been  modi- 
fied or  rewritten ;  several  new  exercises  have  been 
added ;  a  large  number  of  minor  changes  have  been 
introduced  in  all  the  chapters ;  and,  for  the  benefit 
of  those  who  do  not  read  German,  a  second  Appen- 
dix, dealing  with  Flechsig's  scheme  of  the  cortical 
centres,  has  been  inserted. 

As  regards  the  use  of  the  book,  I  may  quote  from 
the  Preface  to  the  first  edition  :  — 

No  experiment  should  be  undertaken  whose  meaning  the 
teacher  does  not  thoroughly  understand ;  none  should  be  per- 
formed in  class  until  he  has  thoroughly  tested  and  familiarised 
himself  with  the  instruments.  So  far  as  time  allows,  pupils 
should  be  encouraged  to  put  their  own  apparatus  together :  to 
cut  their  own  colour-discs,  calculate  their  own  pendulum-units, 
etc.  They  should  also  be  instructed  that  the  object  of  a  psycho- 
logical experiment  is  not  to  '  get  things  right,1  to  arrive  at  some 
prescribed  result ;  but  to  get  things  as  they  are,  to  arrive  at  the 
truth.  All  idea  of  competition  should  be  eliminated  from  the 
work.  It  will  probably  be  found  that  Chapters  VI.,  IX.,  and 
XIII.  are  somewhat  more  difficult  than  the  rest;  more  time 

vii 


viii  Preface  to  Second  Edition 

should  therefore  be  allotted  to  their  study.  Sections  76  and  108 
should  be  omitted  if  reaction-experiments  cannot  be  carried  out, 
and  carried  out  in  some  detail.  Sections  121  and  122,  and  the 
greater  part  of  §  123,  should  be  omitted  from  a  high-school 
course.  For  the  benefit  of  teachers  who  may  desire  to  extend 
the  brief  account  of  the  brain  and  nervous  system  given  in  §  6 
and  Appendix  II.,  I  have  included  brain  models  in  the  list  of 
apparatus.  It  would  be  well  to  consult  the  Index  (under  Physi- 
ology} before  determining  the  form  which  this  extension  shall 
assume.  Throughout  the  book  I  have  referred,  where  reference 
seemed  useful,  to  Professor  Huxley's  Elementary  Lessons  in 
Physiologv  (reprint  of  1897:  The  Macmillan  Co.)  and  to  Pro- 
fessor Nichols'  The  Outlines  of  Physics  (1897:  The  Macmillan 
Co.).  These  works  are  cited  as  H.  and  N.  respectively.  A  few 
citations  of  F.  refer  the  reader  to  Professor  Foster's  Text-book 
of  Physiology  (single  vol.  ed.,  1897:  The  Macmillan  Co.).  An- 
swers to  the  '  Questions '  appended  to  the  chapters  can  always 
be  worked  out,  if  not  from  the  text,  from  the  '  References '  that 
follow. 

It  is  a  very  pleasant  duty  to  acknowledge  the 
assistance  that  I  have  received  from  Professor  E.  C. 
Sanford,  of  Clark  University,  and  from  Dr.  I.  M. 
Bentley,  my  colleague  in  the  Sage  School  of  Philoso- 
phy, in  the  preparation  of  the  revised  text.  To  both 
I  am  indebted  for  many  points  of  valid  criticism  ;  to 
both  I  desire  to  express  my  sincere  thanks  for  much 
self-sacrificing  labour.  I  wish  also  to  thank  my  wife, 
and  my  former  pupil,  Dr.  E.  B.  Talbot,  for  numerous 
suggestions  and  corrections. 

I  have  set  the  late  Professor  Huxley's  name  in  the 
forefront  of  this  second  edition,  partly  as  an  act  of 
homage  to  the  Master  in  Science, —  the  brilliant  in- 
vestigator, the  fearless  critic,  the  lucid  expositor  ; 


Preface  to  Second  Edition  ix 

but  partly,  also,  as  a  personal  tribute  to  one  who 
showed  himself  a  good  friend  and  wise  counsellor 
at  a  time  when  friendship  and  counsel  were  sorely 
needed. 

CORNELL  UNIVERSITY,  ITHACA,  N.Y., 
June,  1899. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   I 
PSYCHOLOGY:  WHAT  IT  Is  AND  WHAT  IT  DOES 

PACK 

§  I.     The  Meaning  of 'Psychology ' I 

§  2.     Science      ......         ....I 

§  3-     Mind 4 

§  4.     Thing  and  Process 6 

§  5.     Mental  Process 9 

§  6.     Mind  and  Body         ........  12 

§  7.     Psychology  and  Physiology        .         .        .        .         .  17 

§  8.    The  Divisions  of  Mind 19 

§  9.     The  Prbblem  of  Psychology 22 

Additional  Questions  and  Exercises 22 

References  for  Further  Reading                                   ;         .  23 

CHAPTER    II 
THE  METHOD  OF  PSYCHOLOGY 

§  10.     Observation 24 

§  II.     Experiment 26 

§  12.     Psychological  Observation VJ 

§  13.     The  Psychological  Experiment 29 

§  14.     The  Method  of  Psychology 32 

§  15.     General  Rules  for  Introspection 33 

Questions  and  Exercises 35 

References 36 

xi 


xii  Contents 

CHAPTER  III 

SENSATION 

PAGE 

§  16.     Sensations  and  their  Classification 37 

§  1 7.     Sensations  from  the  Eye 38 

§  1 8.     Sensations  from  the  Ear 42 

§  19.     Sensations  from  the  Skin 45 

§  20.     Sensations  from  the  Mouth  and  Nose        ....  46 

§  21.     Sensations  from  Internal  Organs        .....  47 

§  22.     Intensity  of  Sensations       .......  49 

§  23.     Weber's  Law     .         .         .         ......  50 

Questions  and  Exercises 51 

References 56 

CHAPTER  IV 
AFFECTION  AND  FEELING 

§24.    The  Two  Kinds  of  Affection 57 

§  25.     Feeling 59 

§  26.    The  Bodily  Signs  of  Affection 62 

§  27.     Affection  and  Sensation 64 

§  28.     Are  there  More  than  Two  Kinds  of  Affection?  ...  68 

Questions  and  Exercises 71 

References 72 

CHAPTER  V 

ATTENTION 

§  29.    The  Problem  of  Attention 73 

§  30.     Attention  as  a  State  of  Consciousness        ....  74 

§  31.    The  Three  Forms  of  Attention 76 

§  32.     Bodily  Tendency  and  Mental  Constitution         ...  78 

§  33.     Attention  and  Affection 81 

§  34.    The  Bodily  Attitude  in  Attention 84 

§  35.     Apperception 85 

§  36.     The  Working  of  Attention 88 

§  37.    The  Physiological  Conditions  of  Attention         ...  90 

Questions  and  Exercises 91 

References 93 


Contents  xiii 

CHAPTER  VI 
PERCEPTION 

PAGE 

§  38.    The  Formation  of  Perceptions  and  Ideas  ....  94 

§  39.    The  Difference  between  Perception  and  Idea    ...  95 

§  40.    The  Three  Classes  of  Perceptions 98 

§  41.    The  Development  of  Perception 101 

§42.     Perceptions  of  Quality :  Taste,  Resistance,  Musical  Note  .  103 

§  43.     Perceptions  of  Space :  Place  or  Locality  upon  the  Skin     .  106 

§  44.     Perceptions  of  Space :  Position 107 

§  45.     Perceptions  of  Space :  Bodily  Posture        .         .         .         .109 

§46.     Perceptions  of  Space :  Movement no 

§47.     Perceptions  of  Time :   Rhythm 112 

§  48.     What  Perception  Means 114 

§49.     Illusions  of  Perception 115 

Questions  and  Exercises 118 

References 121 

CHAPTER   VII 
IDEA  AND  THE  ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS 

§  50.    The  Development  of  Ideas 122 

§51.    The  Four  Chief  Memory-types 123 

§52.    The  Three  Verbal  Sub-types 126 

§  53.    The  Minor  Memory-types 128 

§  54.    The  Association  of  Ideas 130 

§  55.     Simultaneous  Association 132 

§  56.     Successive  Association 134 

§57.    The  Physiological  Conditions  of  Association      .        .        .  136 

Questions  and  Exercises 138 

References 140 

CHAPTER  VIII 

EMOTION 

§  58.     Feeling,  Emotion  and  Mood 141 

§  59.     How  Emotions  are  Formed 143 

§  60.    The  Bodily  Expression  of  Emotion  :  Trunk  and  Limbs      .  144 


xiv  Contents 

PAGE 

§  61.     The  Bodily  Expression  of  Emotion :  Face          .         .         .  146 

§62.     The  Classification  of  the  Emotions 150 

§  63.     Qualitative  Emotions          .         .         .         .         „         .         .  150 

§  64.     Temporal  Emotions 153 

§  65.     Mixed  Feelings 155 

§  66.     Temperament    .........  157 

Questions  and  Exercises    .         .         .         .         .         .  159 

References 160 

CHAPTER  IX 
THE  SIMPLER  FORMS  OF  ACTION 

§  67.     Movement  and  Action 161 

§  68.     The  Conscious  Condition  of  Primitive  Action    .         .         .  163 
§69.     Impulse:  The  Idea  of  Own  Movement      .         .         .         .165 

§  70.     Impulse :  The  Idea  of  Result 167 

§  71.     Psychomotor  Action 170 

§  72.     Reflex  Movement 171 

§  73.     Instinctive  Action 173 

§  74.     The  Physiology  and  the  Psychology  of  Movement      .         .  175 

§75.     The  Classification  of  Impulses  and  Instincts       .         .         .  177 

§  76.     The  Simple  Reaction 179 

Questions  and  Exercises 182 

References 186 

CHAPTER    X 

MEMORY  AND  IMAGINATION 

§77.    The  Two  Kinds  of  Memory  and  Imagination    .        .        .187 

§78.     Recognition  and  Memory :  Passive 188 

§  79.     The  Mark  of  Familiarity 189 

§  80.     The  Degrees  of  Recognition  and  of  Memory     .         .         .  192 

§  81.     Recognition  and  Memory :  Active     .....  193 

§  82.     The  Physiology  of  Memory  and  Forgetfulness  .         .         .  195 
§83.    The 'Three  Stages' in  Remembering        .         .        .        .197 

§  84.     Direct  Apprehension 199 


Contents  xv 

PAGE 

§  85.     Mental  Imagery 201 

§  86.     Passive  Imagination 203 

§87.     Active  Imagination 204 

Questions  and  Exercises 207 

References 210 

CHAPTER  XI 
THOUGHT  AND  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS 

§  88.     Language 211 

§  89.     Thought 213 

§  90.     Judgment  and  Reasoning 215 

§  91.    Aggregate  Ideas  and  Concepts 218 

§  92.     Comparison,  Relation  and  Abstraction     .         .         .         .221 

§  93.    The  Concept  of  Self        .......  224 

§  94.     Self-consciousness 227 

Questions  and  Exercises 228 

References 229 

CHAPTER  XII 
SENTIMENT 

§  95.     Sentiment 230 

§  96.     The  Forms  of  Sentiment 231 

§  97.    The  Intellectual  Sentiments 234 

§  98.     The  Social  and  the  Religious  Sentiments          .         .         .  236 

§  99.     The  ^Esthetic  Sentiments 238 

§  loo.     The  Practical  Utility  of  Esthetics 240 

Questions  and  Exercises 243 

References 244 

CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  COMPLEX  FORMS  OF  ACTION 

§  101.    The  Development  of  Action  beyond  the  Impulse     .        .  245 

§  102.     Selective  Action      ........  246 

§  103.     Volitional  Action 249 

§  104.     Choice  and  Resolve 251 


xvi  Contents 

fAGE 

§  105.     The  Freedom  of  the  Will 254 

§  106.     Psychomotor  Action  and  Automatic  Movement        .         .  256 

§  107.    The  Classification  of  Action 258 

§  108.     The  Compound  Reaction          ......  258 

Questions  and  Exercises 262 

References 265 

CHAPTER   XIV 
ABNORMAL  PSYCHOLOGY 

§  109.     Sleep  and  Dreams 266 

§  1 10.     The  Origin  and  Composition  of  Dreams  ....  267 

§m.    The  Characteristics  of  the  Dream  Consciousness      .        .  268 

§  112.     Hypnotism 271 

§113.     The  Conditions  of  Hypnosis     ......  272 

§  1 14.     Some  Debated  Questions  of  Hypnosis      ....  275 

§  115.     Insanity  and  its  Conditions 278 

§  1 1 6.    The  Chief  Forms  of  Insanity 281 

Questions  and  Exercises 284 

References 285 

CHAPTER  XV 
THE  PROVINCE  AND  THE  RELATIONS  OF  PSYCHOLOGY 

§117.     The  Scope  of  Psychology 286 

§  118.     Child  Psychology 288 

§  119.     Animal  Psychology 290 

§  1 20.     Ethnic  Psychology 292 

§121.     The  Relation  of  Psychology  to  Ethics  and  Logic      .         .  295 

§  122.     The  Relation  of  Psychology  to  Pedagogy          .         .         .  298 

§  123.     Conclusion 300 

Questions  and  Exercises  .......  303 

References 304 


APPENDIX  I. :  APPARATUS  AND  MATERIALS  ....  305 
APPENDIX  II.:  THE  CORTICAL  CENTRES  (FLECHSIG'S  SCHEME)  .  308 
INDEX  OF  NAMES  AND  SUBJECTS 311 


A   PRIMER   OF   PSYCHOLOGY 

CHAPTER   I 

PSYCHOLOGY:   WHAT  IT  Is  AND  WHAT  IT  DOES 

§  i.  The  Meaning  of  'Psychology.' — The  word  'psy-  Psychology 
chology '  comes  from  the  two  Greek  words  psyche,  oVmln^" 
'mind,'  and  logos,  'word.'  Psychology  therefore 
means,  by  derivation,  '  words  '  or  '  talk  about  mind.' 
But  it  is  understood  among  scientific  men  that  when 
the  word  logos  forms  the  last  part  of  a  compound 
English  word  it  shall  mean  not  simply  'talk  about' 
a  subject,  but  the  science  of  that  subject.  Hence 
we  sometimes  speak  of  the  sciences  as  the  '  ologies.' 
Biology,  for  instance,  which  is  derived  from  the 
Greek  bios,  '  life,'  and  logos,  means  the  science  of  life ; 
and  oology,  which  comes  from  oon,  'egg,'  and  logos, 
is  the  science  of  birds'  eggs.  It  would  not  be  quite 
true  to  say,  then,  that  psychology  means  '  talk  about 
mind ' ;  it  rather  means  '  science  of  mind  '  or  '  mental 
science.' 

§  2.    Science.  —  But  what  is  the  difference  between  Science  is 
'  talk  about '  a  thing  and  the  '  science '  of  the  thing  ? 
The  sciences  can  all  be  put  into  words ;    they  are 

knowledge. 

written  down  in  books,  and  courses  of  lectures  are 
given  upon  them.  After  all,  therefore,  science  is 
talk.  Is  there  any  real  difference  between  them  ? 


2      Psychology:    What  it  Is  and  What  it  Does 

The  answer  might  be  put  in  this  way :  all  science 
is  talk,  but  not  all  talk  is  science.  Science  is  a 
particular  kind  of  writing  or  talking.  Talk  may  be 
random,  scrappy,  sketchy ;  we  may  talk  about  a  thing 
when  we  do  not  know  much  about  it,  so  that  our  talk 
deals  only  with  one  side  of  it  or  is  patched  out  with 
guesswork ;  or  we  may  talk  only  for  a  little  time 
together,  so  that  we  do  not  at  all  exhaust  the  subject. 
Science,  on  the  other  hand,  is  orderly  and  methodical 
talk,  talk  that  gives  a  complete  and  exhaustive  ac- 
count of  the  subject,  talk  in  which  no  details  are  left 
out  which  can  help  us  to  explain  the  things  talked 
about.  Hence  to  say  that  psychology  is  the  science 
of  mind  is  very  different  from  saying  that  it  is  simply 
talk  about  mind.  We  all  talk  about  mind :  we  '  make 
up  our  mind,'  or  we  '  have  half  a  mind '  to  do  some- 
thing :  but  we  are  not  all  psychologists.  The  science 
of  mind  must  give  a  complete  account  and  an 
orderly,  well-arranged  account  of  its  subject,  keeping 
the  facts  steadily  in  view  and  never  running  off  into 
mere  speculation. 

The  science  Let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  the  two  sciences  mentioned 
of  biology.  just  now  .  biology  and  oology.  Biology  is  one  of  the  largest 
and  widest,  oology  one  of  the  smallest  of  the  sciences :  but 
in  calling  each  of  them  a  science  we  mean  precisely  the 
same  thing.  Biology  is  an  orderly  and  methodical  account 
of  life.  It  has  to  ask  and  answer  definite  questions  :  how 
life  is  distributed  over  the  earth,  what  animals  and  plants 
are  found  in  what  places,  and  why ;  how  life  came  to  be  so 
different  in  its  forms  as  it  now  is,  how  species  of  plants  and 
animals  arose  ;  how  it  is  that  our  own  life  shows  certain 
characteristics  and  peculiarities  which  we  have  inherited 
from  our  parents,  as  they  did  from  their  parents ;  etc.  All 


§  2.     Science  3 

these  questions  are  approached  carefully  and  worked  upon 
by  accurate  methods ;  and  the  answers  are  all  brought 
together  and  compared  with  each  other.  If  they  disagree, 
the  questions  are  tried  again  :  until  at  last  the  answers  har- 
monise. When  this  is  the  case,  when  we  have  a  complete 
account  of  life  (complete,  that  is,  so  far  as  the  facts  are 
known)  with  no  contradictions  between  one  part  of  it  and 
another,  we  have  a  '  system '  of  knowledge  about  life,  or  a 
'  science  of  biology.' 

So  it  is  with  oology.  Every  schoolboy  can  say  something  The  science 
about  birds' eggs.  But  the  science  oi  oology  deals  with  them  of°61°sy- 
in  an  orderly  and  methodical  way.  It  tries  to  find  out  the 
meaning  of  all  the  different  colours  and  markings ;  it  com- 
pares the  shapes  and  sizes  of  eggs ;  it  asks  whether  the 
colour  of  the  place  where  the  eggs  are  laid  has  anything  to 
do  with  their  colour,  and  whether  the  nature  of  the  nest  or 
rock  or  soil  has  anything  to  do  with  their  shape.  The  oolo- 
gist  knows  at  once,  when  he  sees  the  eggs  of  the  English 
robin  and  the  American  robin,  that  the  birds  must  be  quite 
different :  the  one  is  the  egg  of  a  Sylviine  bird,  the  other 
that  of  a  thrush  (Turdus).  His  knowledge  is  arranged, 
systematic ;  not  haphazard  and  scrappy.  It  is  '  scientific.' 

It  should  be  said,  perhaps,  that  science,  as  we  have  defined  it, 
is  rather  the  ideal  of  knowledge  than  its  actual  state  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  none  of  the  '  sciences '  is  a  complete  and  perfectly  har- 
monious system  ;  new  facts  are  constantly  being  discovered,  and 
new  explanations  adopted.  But  the  ideal  which  is  aimed  at,  and 
which  is  slowly  being  realised,  is  that  of  the  complete  system. 
We  may,  therefore,  rightly  give  the  name  of  science  to  any  body 
of  knowledge  which  has  been  gained  by  scientific  methods  and 
is  approximating  to  the  scientific  ideal. 

That  psychology  really  is  a  science,  as  it  professes  to  be,  The  science 
is  something  that  we  must  take  for  granted  here.     We  can-   c 
not  prove  it  until  we  have  found  out  what  psychology  has  to 
say  about  mind.     Then,  at  the  end  of  our  enquiry,  we  shall 
be  able  to  look  back  over  what  has  been  said,  and  see  that 
psychology,  so  far  as  it  has  gone,  makes  up  an  orderly  and 


4       Psychology:  What  it  Is  and  What  it  Does 


What  is 
mind? 


The  popular 
notion  of 
mind. 


systematic  body  of  knowledge.  We  shall  not,  indeed,  find 
that  it  is  a  finished  science  :  there  are  yet  many  problems 
for  the  psychologist  to  solve.  But  we  shall  see  that  it  is  a 
science,  in  the  sense  in  which  biology  and  oology  are  sciences. 

§  3.  Mind.  —  The  subject  that  psychology  treats 
of  is  mind.  Plainly,  then,  it  is  the  psychologist  who 
can  best  answer  the  question  what  mind  is.  We,  who 
are  now  beginning  to  study  psychology,  cannot  be 
expected  to  know  what  mind  is ;  we  shall  not  know 
it  till  later  on,  when  we  have  worked  over  the  field 
of  the  science.  Still,  it  would  be  unwise  to  begin  to 
read  without  having  any  idea  of  what  we  are  going 
to  read  about.  It  will  be  worth  while,  therefore,  to 
try  to  find  out  in  a  general  way  what  mind  is,  even 
if  we  cannot  at  present  give  a  complete  answer  to 
the  question.  And  we  can  find  out  most  easily,  per- 
haps, if  we  ask,  first,  what  people  say  who  are  not 
psychologists,  and  then  compare  their  answer  with 
what  the  psychologist  himself  says. 

If  we  ask  someone  who  is  not  a  psychologist,— 
someone,  that  is,  who  has  not  made  a  scientific  study 
of  mind,  —  what  mind  is,  he  will  probably  say  this : 
"  Mind  is  something  inside  of  you  which  thinks  and 
imagines  and  remembers.  A  stone  does  not  know 
whether  it  is  in  one  place  or  another;  that  is 
because  it  has  no  mind.  A  young  oak  sapling  does 
not  feel  sorry  when  we  cut  down  the  parent  oak : 
but  we  feel  sorry  when  our  parents  die,  because  our 
minds  can  understand  what  death  means.  I  have 
never  been  to  Africa ;  but  I  can  imagine  what  an 
African  forest  looks  like,  because  my  mind  has 
imagination.  Just  as  your  body  eats  and  drinks,  and 


§  3-    Mind  5 

walks  and  sleeps,  so  your  mind  thinks  and  feels  and 
imagines  and  remembers.  All  these  things  that  go 
on  inside  of  you  are  done  by  your  mind ;  they  are 
the  way  in  which  your  mind  works."  And  then,  if 
we  press  him  further,  and  ask  again  what  the  mind 
really  is  that  works  in  these  ways,  he  will  say :  "  We 
do  not  know  much  about  that.  We  can  only  say 
that  mind  is  not  made  up  of  matter,  as  the  body  is ; 
it  is  immaterial.  It  lives  inside  the  body,  but  does 
not  take  up  any  space :  just  as  a  room  is  full  of  air, 
but  you  can  walk  through  it  without  knowing  that  it 
is  not  empty.  Very  possibly  it  has  the  same  shape 
as  the  body,  like  a  sort  of  ghost.  But  we  do  not 
know  much  about  it ;  we  only  know  its  workings." 

Now  there  is  a  part  of  this  answer  that  the  psy- 
chologist will  be  quite  ready  to  accept ;  but  there  is 
a  part  of  it  which  he  will  say  is  wrong.  That  is  not 
surprising;  we  should  not  expect  a  man  who  had  not 
made  a  scientific  study  of  a  subject  to  be  able  to  give 
a  description  of  it  that  would  satisfy  others  who  had 
done  so.  Let  us  see,  then,  what  is  right  in  the 
answer  and  what  is  wrong. 

It  is  true  that  thoughts  and  memories  and  imagi-  Really,  mind 

i    <•      T  r        •      i         T*.    •  is,notAas, 

nations  and  feelings  are  parts  of  mind.     It  is  true,  thoughts  and 
too,  in  a  sense,  that  they  'go  on  inside  of  us.     But  feelmgs; 
the  psychologist  does  not  think  it  true   that   they 
are  '  done  by '  the  mind  or  are  the  '  workings '  of  the 
mind,  —  that  the  mind  is  something  separate  from 
them.     He  believes   that   they   are  the   mind ;  that 
the  mind  is  just  the  sum  of  them  all:  so  that  when 
he  says  '  mind '  he  is  simply  using  a  sort  of  short- 
hand phrase  for  '  all  my  thoughts  and  feelings.' 


6      Psychology:    What  it  Is  and  What  it  Does 


as  the  chair  It  is  a  little  difficult  at  first  to  understand  this  use  of  the 
sea"  and"'  word  'mind';  but  it  is  important  that  the  use  should  be 
back,  etc.  understood.  To  make  it  clearer  we  will  take  an  illustration. 
Suppose  we  were  asked  to  describe  a  chair.  We  might  say  : 
"A  chair  is  a  piece  of  furniture  that  has  a  seat,  and  four  legs, 
and  bars,  and  a  back,  and  sometimes  arms  and  rockers." 
.  .  .  That  seems  true  enough.  But  if  we  look  at  the  description 
closely  we  find  a  difficulty.  Does  the  chair  'have'  these 
parts?  Is  there  any  chair  there  if  you  take  the  legs  and 
back  and  seat  and  arms  away?  It  is  more  nearly  true  to 
say  that  the  chair  is  all  these  things  than  that  it  has  them. 
When  we  speak  of  the  'legs  of  a  chair,'  we  do  not  mean  that 
the  chair  is  complete  without  its  legs  ;  we  ought  really  to  say 
'  the  legs  of  the  rest  of  a  chair  '  or  '  the  legs  of  back  and  seat 
and  arms.'  Now  it  is  precisely  the  same  with  mind.  We 
must  not  say  that  the  mind  '  has  '  thoughts  and  feelings  ;  but 
that  the  mind  is  thoughts  and  feelings.  Take  away  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  and  you  take  away  the  mind. 

"  But  we  are  constantly  losing  thoughts  ;  we  forget  things. 
Yet  the  mind  remains."  So  may  the  chair-seat  lose  straws 
or  bits  of  cloth  or  parts  of  its  hair-padding  ;  yet  the  chair 
remains.  And  the  mind  is  renewed  as  the  chair  is  ;  we 
learn  new  things,  to  make  up  for  what  we  have  forgotten. 
Take  away  a  great  group  of  thoughts,  and  the  mind  is  an 
'  insane  '  mind,  a  fragment  that  is  of  little  use,  —  like  the 
chair  without  its  legs.  Take  away  thoughts  and  feelings 
altogether,  and  you  take  away  the  whole  mind. 


§  4.  Thing  and  Process.  —  Mind,  then,  is  the  sum 
of  thoughts,  feelings,  etc.  They  are  the  material,  the 
stuff,  so  to  speak,  of  which  mind  is  made  ;  and  they 
are  accordingly  the  matters  with  which  psychology 
deals. 

The  objects  of  which  science  treats  are  of  two  dif- 
ferent kinds.  They  may  be  things,  or  they  may  be 
processes.  If  we  were  arranging  fossil  specimens  or 


if 


Things  and 


,.i 


§  4-    Thing  and  Process  7 

shells  or  minerals,  or  if  we  were  experimenting  in  the 
physical  laboratory  With  the  wedge  and  the  inclined 
plane   and   falling    bodies,    we   should   be   handling 
things.     Things  are,  for  all  practical  purposes,  last- 
ing and  unchanging;   they  are  there,  on  the  table 
before  us,  and  they  do  not  alter  as  we  look  at  them. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  we  were  watching  the  course 
of  a  chemical  change  as  it  occurred  in  the  test-tube, 
or  observing  the  growth  of  a  tadpole  into  a  frog,  we 
should   be    dealing   with   processes.      Processes    are 
always  changing  ;  they  are  different  now  from  what 
they  were  a  moment  ago  and  from  what  they  will  be 
a  moment  later  ;  they  go  on  there,  in  the  test-tube  or 
the  aquarium  before  us.  —  Psychology  is  a  science 
that  treats  exclusively  of  matters  of  the  second  sort,  , 
i.e.,  of  processes.     In  psychology  we  observe  events,^ 
occurrences,  happenings,  goings  on,  processes  :  never  ' 
things.     There  is  no  part  of  mind,  no  thought  or 
feeling  or  memory  or  imagination,  that  we  can  catch 
at  rest  and  watch  unchanged  ;  thought  and  feeling  u>~ 
are  changing,  moving,  shifting  from  instant  to  instant. 
Mind,  then,  as  the  sum  of  thoughts  and  feelings  and  Mind  is  a 
the  rest,  is  a  sum  of  processes.     The  objects  of  the 


'  science  of  mind  '  are  the  processes  of  mind  ;  the  ob- 
jects of  '  mental  science  '  are  mental  processes. 

To  be  able  to  convince  oneself  of  the  fact  that  the  objects 
of  psychology  are  always  processes,  one  must  have  had  some 
amount  of  training  and  practice  in  psychological  observation. 
But  a  rough  experiment  here  will  be  of  some  assistance. 

(  i  )  As  you  sit  reading,  shut  your  eyes  and  try  to  think  The  idea  of 
steadily  of  the  chair  in  which  you  sit.     You  will  probably  a  chair* 
have,  at  first,  a  memory  of  the  printed  word  '  chair  '  which 


8      Psychology:    What  it  Is  and  What  it  Does 

you  have  just  read.  This  you  will  see  in  the  '  mind's  eye.1 
Perhaps,  too,  you  will  hear  the  word  '  chair '  spoken  in  the 
mind's  ear.  Then  will  come  a  somewhat  vague  and  shadowy 
picture  of  the  chair,  as  it  looks  when  your  eyes  are  open, 
only  that  it  will  very  likely  seem  to  be  inside  your  head,  — 
as  if  you  turned  your  eyes  inward  to  see  it.  All  this  occurs 
with  great  rapidity,  the  changes  coming  in  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  write  them  down.  Now  try  to  hold  the  idea  steadily. 
Your  mind  will  suddenly  '  become  a  blank  ' ;  then  the  idea 
will  crop  up  again,  not  just  as  it  was  at  first,  but  with  some 
part  of  the  picture  more  prominent  than  the  rest,  or  with 
some  new  picture  of  another  chair  blended  in  with  it ;  then 
comes  the  blank  again  ;  and  so  on.  Now  look  at  the  blank 
for  a  moment :  you  will  find  that  it  was  not  really  nothing,  no 
mind  at  all,  but  that  it  was  made  up  of  the  black  field  before 
your  eyes,  of  the  pressure  from  your  chair  as  you  sat,  of  the 
sensations  set  up  by  the  movements  of  the  chest  and  abdo- 
men in  breathing,  etc.  And  the  various  processes  in  the 
blank  shift  and  change  as  inevitably  as  the  processes  in  the 
idea  of  the  chair.  Here,  then,  is  a  flow,  a  passage,  a  going 
on  :  not  anything  like  a  '  thing.' 

The  perccp-         (2)  Close  the  book  and  look  steadily  at  the  table  in  front 
tion  of  a          of  vou  an(j  trv  to  think  continuously  of  that.     You  will  find 

table.  ,    '  ' 

that  steadiness  now  is  even  more  impossible  than  it  was 
when  the  eyes  were  shut.  There  is  a  tendency  to  let  the 
eyes  wander,  to  let  them  follow  the  grain  and  pattern  of  the 
wood,  or  to  travel  over  the  various  objects  lying  on  the  table. 
If  you  withstand  this  temptation,  your  mind  becomes  a  blank 
very  soon  indeed  :  the  table  gets  to  be  quite  meaningless  to 
you.  Presently  the  blank  ends  :  you  remember  that  you 
'ought '  to  have  thought  of  the  table,  and  resolve  to  do  so ; 
the  eyes  try  to  wander  again ;  and  so  the  whole  history  is 
repeated.  Now  look  at  the  blank  :  it  is  filled  up  with  press- 
ures from  your  chair,  sensations  from  breathing,  sensations 
of  strain  about  the  eyes,  etc.  Here  too,  therefore,  there  is 
a  flow  of  processes ;  the  picture  of  the  table,  the  feeling  of 
'ought,'  the  resolve,  the  pressure,  the  strain,  all  these  are 


§  5.    Mental  Process  9 

mental  processes ;  they  are,  or  they  make  up,  your  mind 
during  the  experiment.  Mind  '  goes  on '  from  moment  to 
moment ;  it  is  never  still. 

§  5.  Mental  Process.  —  We  must  now  ask  how  it  is 
that  a  mental  process  differs  from  the  other  processes 
that  we  have  mentioned.  If  the  mental  process  were 
in  all  respects  the  same  as  the  chemical  and  the 
biological  process,  we  should  not  be  able  to  put  the 
three  into  three  different  sciences:  chemical  decom- 
position, and  the  growth  of  the  frog,  and  the  course 
of  an  idea  would  all  have  to  be  treated  by  some  one 
science.  What,  then,  does  the  word  '  mental '  mean  ? 

We   said  just   now  that  mental   processes  go  on  Mental 
'  inside  of  us.'     The  process  in  the  test-tube  and  the  onTnside  the 
process  in  the  aquarium  are,  clearly,  going  on  outside  body- 
of   us.      Here,  then,  is  one  difference  between  the 
mental  and  the  other  processes.      Still,  it  does  not 
take  us  very  far.     For  there  are  chemical  processes 
also  going  on  inside  of  us  :  processes  of  digestion,  e.g. 
And  biological  processes  of  growth  and  decay  are 
also  going  on  inside  of  us;  yet  we  do  not  speak  of 
them  as  mental.     The   difference  cannot,  therefore, 
be  merely  a  difference  of  inside  and  outside. 

What  we  have  to  do  is  to  distinguish  somehow 
between  the  inside  processes  which  are  mental  and 
the  inside  processes  which  are  not  mental.  We  had 
a  similar  task  in  §  2  :  all  science  is  talk,  we  found, 
but  not  all  talk  is  science.  So  here  :  all  mental  pro- 
cesses are  processes  going  on  inside  the  body,  but 
not  all  inside  processes  are  mental.  What  is  the 
difference  between  them  ?  The  characteristics  that 
made  talk  into  science  were  those  of  method  and 


io     Psychology:    What  it  Is  and   What  it  Does 


and  can  be 
known  by 
one  person 
only 


(which  is  not 
true  of  other 
processes) ; 


completeness.  What  are  the  characteristics  that 
make  a  process  within  the  body  a  mental  process  ? 
This  is  a  question  that  has  been  answered  in  a 
great  many  ways.  The  simplest  answer  to  it,  per- 
haps, is  this.  A  mental  process  is  a  process  which 
can  form  part  of  the  experience  of  one  person  only ; 
the  processes  dealt  with  by  other  sciences  can  form 
part  of  everybody's  experience.  Not  only  does  the 
mental  process  go  on  inside  of  you ;  it  is  so  entirely 
inside  of  you  that  you  are  the  only  person  who  can 
ever  get  at  it  and  observe  it. 

Illustrations  will  help  us  again.  And  as  we  have  settled 
the  point  that  psychology  deals  always  with  processes,  and 
always  too  with  processes  within  the  body,  we  will  take  two 
of  these  processes  as  our  illustrations. 

We  said  that  the  process  of  digestion,  going  on  inside  the 
living  body,  is  a  chemical  process.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, no  one,  neither  yourself  nor  anyone  else,  can  watch 
your  digestive  processes.  But  cases  are  known  in  which  the 
wall  of  the  stomach  has  been  torn  through,  say,  by  a  gunshot 
wound  ;  so  that  digestion  could  be  followed  by  the  eye,  just 
as  the  reaction  in  a  test-tube  can  be  followed.  Now  it  is 
plain  that,  in  such  a  case,  other  people  could  trace  the  pro- 
cess as  well  as  you  could  :  better,  indeed,  for  you  could 
watch  your  own  digestion  only  by  means  of  a  mirror,  whereas 
the  onlooker  could  watch  it  directly.  The  mental  processes, 
on  the  other  hand,  —  the  pain  of  the  wound,  the  feelings  of 
hunger  and  of  satiety,  —  form  part  of  your  experience  only  ; 
they  can  never  enter  into  the  experience  of  the  onlooker. 

The  same  thing  holds  of  the  process  of  growth.  The 
growth  of  a  bone  or  of  a  tumour  within  the  body  could  be 
followed  from  day  to  day  by  means  of  x-ray  photographs. 
But  this  growth  would  evidently  lie  open  to  your  physician, 
or  to  anyone  else  to  whom  he  should  show  the  photographs, 


§  5-   Mental  Process  1 1 

just  as  well  as  to  yourself.  The  mental  processes,  the  pains 
and  pressures  coming  from  the  growth,  would  be  yours  and 
yours  only. 

We  can  put  this  answer  in  a  different  way :  in  a  but  they 

. .         embrace  the 

sentence  which,  at  first  sight,  seems  to  contradict  whole  world, 
what  we  have  just  said,  but  which  really  throws  light 
on  it.  We  may  say  that  every  object  dealt  with  by 
any  science  whatsoever,  —  whether  it  be  thing  or 
process,  whether  it  be  inside  of  the  body  or  outside, 
—  can  be  transformed  into  a  mental  process.  For 
everything  can  be  looked  at  in  two  ways.  It  can  be 
looked  at  as  it  is  in  the  world,  where  one  man  can 
see  it  as  well  as  his  neighbour :  or  it  can  be  looked 
at  as  it  is  in  someone's  personal  experience.  Looked 
at  in  the  first  way  it  is  a  physical  thing  or  a  chemical 
process  or  a  physiological  process  or  what  not ;  looked 
at  in  the  second  way  it  is  always  a  mental  process. 

Think  of  sound,  for  instance.  The  physicist  says  that 
sound  is  a  certain  kind  of  movement  of  the  particles  of  the 
air  we  breathe.  The  physiologist  says  that  sound  is  a  com- 
motion in  the  cells  of  a  certain  part  of  the  brain,  —  a  com- 
motion first  set  up  by  the  action  of  the  air  particles  on  the 
ear,  and  then  carried  inwards  to  the  brain  along  the  nerve 
of  hearing.  The  psychologist  says  that  sound  is  a  sensation, 
a  mental  process. 

The  three  sounds  seem  to  be  very  different.     The  air  The  three 
movements  go  on  quite  independently  of  us  ;  there  is  phys-   ^""^j 
ical  sound  when  the  air  moves,  whether  we  are  present  to  physioiogi- 

hear  it  or  not.     And  the  commotion  in  our  brain  goes  on  ^.psycho- 
logical, 
quite  independently  of  us :  the  physiologist  who  has  made 

models  of  the  ear  and  performed  experiments  on  animals 
tells  us  what  happens,  and  we  believe  him ;  but  we  do  not 
know  more  than  anyone  else  about  the  processes  in  our  ear 
and  brain.  But  the  hearing,  the  sensation  of  rap  or  thud  or 


12     Psychology:    What  it  Is  and  What  it  Does 

tone,  is  a  particular  experience  :  everyone  hears  for  himself, 
and  no  one  can  have  any  sensation  but  his  own.  This  last 
sound,  therefore,  is  a  mental  process. 

Nevertheless,  we  can  make  the  physical  and  the  physio- 
logical sounds  into  mental  processes.  For  after  all,  if  we 
are  to  have  a  science  of  physics,  we  must  have  an  idea  of  the 
physical  movements ;  physics  is  simply  a  statement  of  the 
ideas  of  people  who  have  worked  at  physical  problems. 
Hence  we  can  say,  "  Sound  is  a  certain  movement  of  the 
air-particles  "  :  that  is  physics.  But  we  can  also  say, "  This 
or  this  is  my  idea  of  the  movement  of  the  air-particles  "  :  and 
that  is  psychology.  And  similarly  with  the  brain  commotion. 

To  make  the  point  quite  clear,  go  to  a  physical  text-book 
(.W-i  337)  and  read  the  definition  of  sound  there  given.  Then 
ask  yourself  what  idea  this  definition  calls  up.  Your  idea  will 
perhaps  be  made  up,  in  part,  of  mental  pictures  of  the  words  of 
the  definition  (cf.  above,  p.  7)  ;  but  you  will  also  see,  probably, 
in  the  mind's  eye,  some  picture  of  the  actual  movement.  Ob- 
serve this  picture  carefully,  and  try  to  describe  it  in  words. 
Compare  your  own  idea  with  those  of  two  or  three  of  your 
friends.  You  will  find  at  once  how  individual  it  is,  how  entirely 
it  is  your  own  experience  and  not  that  of  anybody  else.  Even  if 
the  words  in  which  two  of  you  describe  it  should,  by  some  acci- 
dent, be  identical,  —  and  this  may  happen  quite  easily  when  you 
are  not  used  to  psychological  observation,  —  each  will  still  feel 
certain  of  the  fact  that  the  picture  described  is  his  picture  and  his 
only ;  it  cannot  be  transferred  from  the  one  to  the  other,  or  handed 
round  for  inspection.  You  will  find,  that  is,  that  the  physical 
sound  has  become  an  idea  of  physical  sound,  a  mental  process. 

In  this  way  anything  and  everything  can  be  made  into  a  men- 
tal process.  Just  now  we  saw  that  a  chair — which,  if  we  look  at 
it  as  a  physical  object,  is  sufficiently  solid  and  unchanging —  be- 
comes a  process,  or  rather  a  group  of  processes,  when  we  look  at 
it  psychologically.  i.e.,  look  at  our  idea  of  it.  It  would  be  worth 
the  reader's  while  to  test  some  other  cases  :  try  heat,  e.g.,  or 
light,  or  animal,  or  rock.  The  result  will  be  precisely  the  same. 

rhe  brain  is       §  6.    Mind  and  Body.  —  Mental  processes  run  their 

lie  organ  of  .  ,  .  .  .  .  , 

nind.  course     within    —  better,  in  connection  with  —  the 


§  6.    Mind  and  Body  13 

Jiving  body.  But  they  are  more  closely  connected 
with  some  parts  of  the  body  than  with  others.  Men- 
tal processes  appear  only  when  there  is  a  commotion 
(or,  as  it  is  technically  called,  an  excitation}  in  a  cer- 
tain portion  of  the  brain.  Hence  the  brain  is  some- 
times spoken  of  as  the  '  organ  of  mind.' 

The  brain  (H.,  290)  is  a  rounded  whitish  mass  of  soft 
tissue  lying  in  the  cavity  of  the  skull.  It  is  made  up  of 
nerve  fibres  (delicate  strings  of  tissue  ;  H.,  356)  and  of 
nerve  cells  (ff.,  359).  The  cells  are  found  in  groups  or 
clusters  within  the  brain  mass,  and  also  form  a  layer  or  rind 
covering  the  whole.  This  layer  is  called  the  cortex  (bark  or 
rind) .  It  is  only  when  certain  cells  of  the  cortex  are  excited 
that  we  have  a  mental  process ;  the  fibres  serve  simply  to 
join  groups  of  cells  together,  and  so  to  convey  excitations 
from  one  part  of  the  brain  to  another. 

Nerve  fibres  (If.,  201,  278,  295)  are  found  not  only  in   The  nervous 
the  brain   itself,  however,  but  also   throughout   the   body.   system- 
Nerves  run  into  the  brain  from  every  organ  of  the  body : 
from   eyes,  nose,   skin,   heart,    muscles,  bones,  etc.      And 
nerves   run   out   from  the  brain  to  the  muscles.     In  both 
cases  the  nerve  fibres  act  merely  as  telegraph  wires,  carry- 
ing messages  from  cells  in  the  bodily  organs  to  cells  in  the 
brain,  and  from  brain-cells  out  again  to  muscle-cells. 

Suppose,  e.g.,  that  as  you  are  reading  a  fly  settles  on  your   Physiological 
forehead,  and  you  raise  your  hand  to  drive  it  away.     On  the   and  Psych°- 
physiological  side  you  have  the  following  processes,    (i)  The    °£^s  f 
weight  and  movement  of  the  fly  act  as  '  stimulus '  to  certain  skin- 
cells  from  which  nerves  run  inwards  to  the  brain.     '  Stimulus ' 
is  the  technical  word  for  the  physical  object  or  process  that 
can  excite  a  sense-organ  and  so  give  rise  to  a  mental  process. 
(2)  The  stimulation  of  these  skin-cells  sends  an  ' excitation' 
travelling  along  the  nerves.      (3)  The  excitation  arrives  at  a 
group  of  cortical   brain-cells,  and  explodes  them.     (4)  A  new 
excitation,  due   to  the  explosion,  travels   along   fibres   running 
within  the  cortex  to  another  group  of  cells,  from  which  nerves 


14     Psychology:    What  it  Is  and  What  it  Does 

run  to  the  muscles  of  hand  and  arm,  and  (5)  explodes  these. 
Their  explosion  (6)  sends  the  necessary  excitation  to  hand 
and  arm :  hand  and  arm  move.  (7)  This  movement  serves 
as  '  stimulus '  to  muscle-cells,  from  which  yet  other  nerves  run  in- 
wards to  the  brain.  (8)  The  stimulation  of  these  muscle-cells  sends 
an  excitation  travelling  along  this  second  set  of  in-going  nerves. 
(9)  The  excitation  arrives  at  a  group  of  cortical  cells,  and  explodes 
them  ;  stage  (3)  is  repeated,  but  at  a  different  part  of  the  cortex. 
On  the  psychological  side  you  have :  at  stage  (3)  an  idea 
of  the  fly,  and  at  stage  (9)  sensations  which  tell  you  of  the 
position  and  movement  of  your  hand  and  arm.  No  mental 
process  is  present  at  any  of  the  other  stages ;  not  even  at  stage 
(5).  It  is  only  when  the  cortical  cells  which  receive  the  in- 
coming excitations  are  exploded  that  a  mental  process  arises. 
(F.,  1060.) 

The  fact  that  the  brain  is  the  organ  of  mind  has 
been  established  by  two  lines  of  evidence.  In  the 
first  place,  we  find  all  through  the  animal  kingdom 
that  size  and  complexity  of  brain  are  matched  by 
range  and  complexity  of  mental  processes.  And, 
secondly,  we  find  that  disturbance  of  certain  parts 
of  the  brain  indicates  a  certain  form  of  mental  dis- 
turbance, and  conversely,  that  particular  forms  of 
mental  disturbance  indicate  disturbance  of  particu- 
lar parts  of  the  brain. 

We  cannot  go  into  the  details  of  this  evidence  here.  The 
following  facts,  however,  may  be  noted. 

(i)  The  brain  of  man  is,  by  absolute  measurement,  an 
organ  of  great  size  ;  it  is  heavier  than  that  of  any  other  ani- 
mal, with  the  exception  of  a  few  of  the  very  largest  (elephant, 
etc.).  It  is  also  relatively,  i.e.,  when  compared  with  the 
weight  of  the  whole  body,  heavier  than  the  brain  of  any 
other  animal,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  of  the  most  highly 
developed  small  mammals  (some  monkeys,  etc.).  And  we 
know  that  the  mental  life  of  man  is  richer  than  that  of  any 
other  animal.  (Donaldson,  Growth  of  Brain,  121.) 


§  6.    Mind  and  Body  15 

(2)  The  physician  finds  from  experience  that  peculiar 
disorders  of  a  patient's  ideas,  as  shown,  e.g.,  by  forgetfulness 
of  the  names  of  a  certain  class  of  things,  indicate  disorder 
of  a  special  part  of  the  cortex,  —  say,  the  pressure  of  a 
blood-clot  upon  a  particular  area  of  the  nervous  substance. 
Hence  the  mental  symptoms  justify  his  opening  the  skull 
at  a  certain  place.  He  finds  the  clot,  and  removes  it ;  and 
with  its  removal  the  patient's  ideas  become  normal  again. 

(#§1150 

But  how  do  we  know  anything  about  the  '  range  and  HOW  do  we 

.    know  that 

complexity  of  mental  processes  all  through  the  animal  other  pe0pie 
kingdom '  ?    How  do  we  know,  for  that  matter, — since  have  mmds? 
we  can  know  only  our  own  mental  processes,  —  that 
anyone  except  ourselves  has  a  mind  at  all  ? 

Before  we  attempt  to  answer  this  question,  let  us 
be  quite  sure  as  to  what  the  question  is.  We  can 
never  know  any  mental  processes  but  our  own ;  we 
cannot  experience  our  neighbour's  experiences.  No 
one  can  take  his  friend's  grief  out  of  his  friend's 
mind,  and  put  it  into  his  own.  But  we  can  know 
about  the  minds  of  others,  because  we  can  form  ideas 
of  their  minds.  "  I  know  just  how  he  felt  when  he 
got  that  letter ! "  we  say  :  or  "  I  knew  that  he  would 
think  as  I  did  about  it."  In  other  words :  it  is  quite 
possible  to  know  that  other  people  have  minds,  al- 
though it  is  impossible  to  experience  what  they  expe- 
rience, to  make  their  mental  processes  our  mental 
processes.  How  do  we  know,  then,  that  other  men, 
and  the  animals,  have  minds  ? 

In  the  first  place,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  The  argu- 
ment from 
matter   as   regards   other  men.     The  whole  of   our  society. 

common    life  —  family    life,    social    life,    civic    life, 
national    life  —  is   based    upon   the  assumption  that 


1 6.    Psychology:    What  it  Is  and  What  it  Does 


The  argu- 
ment from 
actions. 


kn 
re! 
br 
m: 


we  all  have  minds,  and  would  be  impossible  if  the 
assumption  were  falsified  by  the  facts.  All  these 
forms  of  life,  that  is,  are  the  productions  of  more 
than  one  mind.  All  of  them,  e.g.,  presuppose  lan- 
guage. And  language  is  a  mental  product  that 
requires  at  least  two  minds  for  its  making.  We 
should  never  have  made  words  to  talk  to  ourselves. 
All  of  them,  again,  presuppose  laws.  Now  a  single 
mind  may  form  a  habit ;  but  it  takes  at  least  two 
minds  to  make  a  law. 

But,  secondly,  there  is  other  evidence,  which  leads 
us  to  assert  that  all  the  animals,  and  not  men 
only,  possess  minds.  This  is  evidence  drawn  from 
conduct  or  behaviour.  Our  conduct  indicates  the 
state  of  our  mind,  the  character  of  our  mental  pro- 
cesses, at  a  given  moment,  just  as  the  direction  in 
which  the  weather-cock  points  indicates  the  direction 
of  the  wind.  If  we  find,  then,  that  certain  outside 
circumstances  set  up  certain  mental  processes  in  us, 
and  that  under  these  same  circumstances  we  act  in  a 
certain  way :  and  if  we  find  that  under  similar  out- 
side circumstances  an  animal  acts  in  a  similar  way : 
then  we  are  justified  in  concluding  that  the  animal 
has  similar  mental  processes.  Thus  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  a  dog  feels  grief  and  anger,  recognises  his 
master,  dreams  in  his  sleep,  etc. ;  under  fitting  cir- 
cumstances he  '  shows  all  the  signs '  of  feeling  and 
recognising  and  dreaming. 

Rudimentary        It  is  not  surprising,  perhaps,  that  we  should  find  signs  of 

minds.  mind  in  the  higher  animals ;  animals  whose  nervous  system 

is  built  on  precisely  the  same  pattern  as  our  own.     But  we 

find  them  quite  plainly,  too,  in  the  conduct  of  animals  whose 


§  /•    Psychology  and  Physiology  \f 

structure  is  very  different  from  ours,  e.g.,  in  that  of  insects. 
More  than  that :  we  find  them  persisting  in  the  conduct  of 
the  very  lowest  animals  that  there  are,  the  one-celled  ani- 
mals whose  movements  cannot  be  followed  except  by  help  of 
the  microscope.  These  creatures  show  signs  of  rudimentary 
'impulsive'  action  (p.  176,  inf.).  At  the  same  time,  while 
we  grant  that  they  have  minds,  we  must  guard  against  sup- 
posing that  the  mental  processes  whose  signs  we  see  in  their 
actions  are  at  all  like  our  own.  Mental  processes  grow  more 
and  more  distinct  as  the  nervous  system  grows  distinct  from 
the  rest  of  the  body  ;  and  animals  that  are  '  all  of  a  piece  ' 
—  any  part  of  whose  body  can  act  as  nerve  or  muscle  or 
stomach  or  lung  —  cannot  have  any  but  the  most  confused 
and  vague  mental  processes. 

It  has  been  seriously  argued  by  some  psychologists  that  mind 
appears  wherever  life  appears  ;  not  only  in  the  animal  kingdom, 
but  in  the  vegetable  as  well.  This  is  a  question  which  we  can- 
not stop  to  discuss  here.  At  any  rate  the  plant-mind,  if  there  is 
such  a  thing,  must  be  so  extraordinarily  rudimentary  and  so 
totally  different  from  our  own  that  it  is  hopeless  to  try  to  form 
any  idea  of  it. 

§  7.    Psychology    and    Physiology.  —  It    has   some-  Mind  is  not 

,  .  ,  ...  ,    a  function  of 

times  been  said,  on  the  ground  of  the  facts  stated  brain; 
in  the  foregoing  Section,  that  psychology  is  nothing 
but  a  branch  of  physiology.  Just  as  the  lachrymal 
glands  secrete  tears,  it  is  urged,  or  the  sweat-glands 
in  the  skin  secrete  sweat,  or  the  liver  secretes  bile, 
just  so  does  the  brain  secrete  mental  processes, 
thoughts  and  feelings.  As  it  is  the  function  or 
office  of  the  stomach  to  digest  food,  so  it  is  the 
function  of  the  brain  to  think  and  feel. 

This  argument  is  not  sound.     It  is  important  that 
the  psychologist  should  understand  physiology,  and 
especially   the   physiology   of   the    nervous   system ; 
c 


1 8     Psychology :    What  it  Is  and   What  it  Does 


but  body  is 
the  condition 
of  mind. 


The  prin- 
ciple of 
parallelism. 


but  psychology  is  not  a  part  of  physiology.  The 
reason  why  the  psychologist  is  interested  in  the 
body  is  this. 

In  every  science  we  try  to  explain  things.  Facts 
cannot  be  methodically  arranged  and  harmonised 
until  they  are  explained.  Now  to  explain  a  thing 
is  simply  to  state  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
appears.  These  circumstances  are  termed  the  con- 
ditions of  the  thing's  appearance.  Apply  this  to 
psychology.  Certain  disturbances  in  the  body,  be- 
ginning in  a  bodily  organ  and  ending  in  the  cortex, 
are  the  circumstances  under  which  mental  processes 
appear.  Bodily  processes,  that  is,  are  the  conditions 
of  mental  processes ;  and  the  statement  of  them  fur- 
nishes us  with  the  scientific  explanation  of  the  mental 
processes.  We  can  deal  with  mental  processes  by 
themselves ;  but  to  make  our  psychology  complete 
we  should  add  to  our  account  of  mind  an  explana- 
tion of  it,  that  is,  an  account  of  its  bodily  conditions. 

That  is  why  the  psychologist  ought  to  know  physi- 
ology. Wherever  a  mental  process  occurs,  there 
must  be  a  bodily  process  to  serve  as  its  condition. 
But  this  is  not  saying  that  the  brain  produces  mental 
processes :  it  is  merely  saying  that  the  mental  runs 
alongside  of  the  bodily,  —  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  bodily  is  the  condition  of  the  mental.  To  say 
more  than  this  is  to  leave  science  for  ungrounded 
speculation. 

It  is  important  to  understand  clearly  what  scientific  ex- 
planation means.  Hence  it  will  be  well  for  the  reader  to 
test  the  definition  just  given  by  instances  taken  from  vari- 
ous sciences :  to  see,  e.g.,  how  the  physicist  explains  the 


§  8.    The  Divisions  of  Mind  19 

formation  of  dew,  or  the  geologist  the  appearance  of  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  rocks. 

It  may  seem  strange  at  first  sight  that  an  occurrence  in  one 
science  (physiology)  should  be  called  upon  to  explain  an  occur- 
rence in  another  (psychology).  But  the  process  of  digestion 
(physiological)  is  chemically  explained ;  the  shape  of  the  bones 
of  the  skeleton  (anatomical)  is  physically  explained  (by  the  law 
of  the  lever,  etc.)  ;  and  so  on. 

§  8.  The  Divisions  of  Mind.  —  When  the  zoologist  Classifies* 
sets  to  work  to  classify  animals,  his  material,  what  he 
has  before  him  to  work  with,  is  simply  the  separate 
individual  animals  found  in  the  world.  By  putting 
together  the  creatures  that  are  more  or  less  alike, 
he  is  able  to  make  an  orderly  arrangement  of  his 
material :  he  groups  the  separate  animals  into  grades 
and  orders  and  families  and  genera  and  species. 

So  it  is  with  the  psychologist.  Mind  is  a  stream 
of  processes,  going  on  as  long  as  the  body  goes  on 
living.  The  psychologist  disentangles  these  pro- 
cesses, and  puts  together  into  groups  those  that  are 
more  or  less  alike.  In  this  way  he  is  able  to  classify 
his  material ;  he  passes  by  stages  from  the  total  mind 
to  the  single  processes  of  which  mind  is  composed. 

The  total  mind,  the  mind  that  extends  over  the  The  three 
whole  lifetime,  falls  (i)  into  three   parts.      We  call  ^d° 
them  the  child  mind,  the  adult  mind  and  the  senile 
mind.    Each  part  has  well-marked  peculiarities  which 
distinguish  it  from  the  others,  although  we  cannot 
say  precisely  in  what  years  of  life  the  first  two  give 
place  to  their  successors.     The  change  is  gradual, 
and    occurs    at    different    times    in    different    lives. 

(2)  Each  of  these  part-minds  consists  of  a  series  of  Conscious- 

T>  •  •   j   ness« 

consciousnesses.      By  consciousness  we  mean     mind 


2O    Psychology:    What  it  Is  and  What  it  Does 

now ' ;  the  mind  of  the  present  moment.  It  is  cleai 
that,  as  you  pass  through  life,  you  pass  through 
a  succession  of  '  now's ' :  now  it  is  time  to  get  up, 
now  time  for  breakfast,  now  time  for  work,  and  so 
on.  The  mind  at  every  '  now,'  whether  it  be  in 
childhood  or  in  manhood  or  in  old  age,  is  a  con- 
sciousness. You  have  a  getting-up  consciousness,  a 
breakfast  consciousness,  etc.  Sometimes  conscious- 
nesses pass  into  one  another  by  slow  degrees,  and 
sometimes  very  suddenly. 

States  of  con-  But  a  group  of  animals  may  live  under  favourable  or  un 
sciousness.  favourable  conditions  :  there  may  be  enough  or  too  little 
rain  for  them,  scarcity  of  food  or  abundance  of  food,  etc. 
The  conditions  of  consciousness  may  vary  in  the  same  way ; 
the  brain  may  be  well-nourished  or  ill-nourished,  etc.  So 
we  have  different  states  of  consciousness,  as  they  are  called. 
Besides  the  normal,  waking  consciousness,  we  have  abnormal 
states  of  consciousness,  the  chief  of  which  are  seen  in  the 
dreaming  and  the  hypnotic  consciousnesses.  Within  the  wak- 
ing consciousness  we  have  a  well-marked  difference  between 
the  attentive  state,  the  state  in  which  we  are  fully  absorbed 
or  interested  in  something,  and  the  state  of  inattention. 

Remember  that,  just  as  the  same  animals  may  live  under 
different  conditions,  and  be  fat  or  lean,  healthy  or  unhealthy, 
so  the  same  consciousnesses  may  appear  in  different  states. 
That  is,  the  mental  processes  may  be  the  same  in  attention  that 
they  are  in  inattention;  it  is  only  their  state  that  differs,  —  their 
clearness  and  definiteness,  and  (if  we  may  say  so)  their  power 
to  hold  their  own  against  other  processes. 

So  we  may  see  an  accident  or  dream  of  it.  In  the  first  case 
it  has  a  great  hold  over  us ;  in  the  second  we  forget  it  soon 
after  waking.  The  state  of  the  accident-processes  differs  in  the 
two  consciousnesses. 

The  concrete       (3)  Every  consciousness  is  made  up  of  a  number 
of  concrete  processes :   ideas,  feelings,  wishes,  resolu- 


§  8.    The  Divisions  of  Mind  21 

tions,  etc.  Each  of  these,  every  idea  or  resolve  or 
feeling  that  forms  part  of  our  conscious  experience, 
is  a  specific  item  of  that  experience,  —  corresponding 
to  the  separate  animal,  horse  or  eagle  or  what  not,  of 
the  zoologist. 

(4)  Once  more  :  just  as  histological  observation  The  mental 
shows  that  the  animal  is  not  made  up  of  a  single 
uniform  substance,  but  that  the  organism  is  com- 
posed of  a  number  of  different  tissues,  so  does 
psychological  observation  show  that  no  concrete 
mental  process,  no  idea  or  feeling  that  we  actually 
experience  as  part  of  a  consciousness,  is  a  simple 
process,  but  that  all  alike  are  made  up  of  a  number 
of  really  simple  processes  blended  together.  These 
simple  processes  are  called  mental  elements.  They 
are  very  numerous  :  there  are  probably  some  50,000 
of  them  :  but  they  may  all  be  grouped  into  two  great 
classes,  as  sensations  and  affections. 

Reversing  our  order,  then,  we  may  build  up  mind  as  Theup- 


follows.      We  set  out  with  the  two  classes  of  elementary 

mind. 

processes,  sensations  (red,  cold,  bitter)  and  affections 
(pleasant,  unpleasant).  These  can  never  be  experienced 
separately;  a  consciousness  is  never  a  single  elementary 
process,  but  always  a  group  of  concrete  processes.  While 
the  chemist  can  get  H  and  O  as  well  as  H2O,  the  elements 
as  well  as  the  compound,  the  psychologist  can  never  know 
sensations  and  affections  except  by  abstraction,  by  directing 
his  attention  upon  one  part  of  a  concrete  process  and  ignor- 
ing the  rest  of  it. 

Above  the  elements  stand  the  simplest  forms  of  real 
mental  experience,  the  concrete  processes  (ideas,  feelings, 
etc.).  These  unite,  again,  to  form  consciousnesses,  which 
appear  in  various  states,  according  as  their  bodily  conditions 
vary.  Finally,  a  certain  series  of  consciousnesses  makes  up 


22     Psychology:    What  it  Is  and   What  it  Does 


Elements. 


Laws  of 
connection. 


Bcdfly  con- 
ditions. 


a  child  or  adult  or  senile  mind  ;  and  these  three  part-minds, 
taken  together,  make  up  the  whole  mind  of  the  individual 
man. 

§  9.  The  Problem  of  Psychology.  —  We  are  now  in 
a  position  to  say  just  what  the  problem  is  that  the 
psychologist  is  called  upon  to  solve.  He  must  (i) 
give  an  exact  account  of  the  elementary  processes,  of 
sensation  and  affection.  He  must  then  (2)  state  the 
laws  which  govern  the  connection  of  the  elements 
into  concrete  processes,  and  the  connection  of  con- 
crete processes  into  consciousnesses.  He  must  also 
declare  whether  these  laws  hold  alike  of  the  child, 
adult  and  senile  mind,  and  of  the  animal  mind  as 
well  as  of  the  human,  or  whether  there  are  different 
laws  for  each  stage  of  mental  development.  Lastly, 
(3)  he  must  give  the  bodily  conditions  under  which 
the  elementary  processes  appear,  and  those  under 
which  a  change  occurs  in  the  state  of  consciousness. 

This  threefold  problem  is  a  great  deal  too  wide  to  be 
solved  in  a  single  book.  All  that  we  can  do  here  is  to 
sketch  briefly  the  answers  to  the  most  important  questions 
involved.  But  it  is  well  to  realise,  at  the  beginning  of  one's 
study  of  mind,  how  large  and  how  varied  a  field  psychology 
covers. 

Additional  Questions  and  Exercises 

(1)  In  thinking  of  the  chair  as  directed  in  §  4  do  you  see  it 
in  your  head,  or  do  you  see  yourself  sitting  in  it,  or  is  it  some- 
where in  space,  away  from  you?     If  you  see  it  in  space,  where 
precisely  does  it  seem  to  be  ?    Can  you  make  it  move  from  place 
to  place  at  will  ?     Can  you  see  it  on  your  eyelids  ?     Can  you  see 
it  as  if  it  were  in  the  room  behind  you? 

(2)  When  you  are  thinking  of  the  table,  and  have  the  feeling 
Of  ' ought  ^  and  the  resolve  to  hold  the  table  steadily,  what  are 
.he  processes  that  actually  make  up  your  consciousness?     Can 


Questions  and  Exercises  23 

you  split  up  the  feeling  and  the  resolve  into  simpler  processes  ? 
Think  of  various  things  that  you  ought  and  mean  to  do,  and  see  if 
you  can  discover  what  the  feelings  and  resolves  are  made  up  of. 

(3)  What  difference  would  it  make  in  the  list  of  processes, 
psychological  and  physiological,  in  §  6,  if  instead  of  simply  wav- 
ing my  hand  to  drive  the  fly  away  I  actually  touched  my  fore- 
head ?     Draw  a  diagram  (pattern  in  James,  Textbook,  p.  117). 

(4)  What  other  products  of  our  common  life  are  there,  besides 
language  and  law,  which  compel  us  to  believe  that  our  fellow- 
men  have  minds  ? 

(5)  How  would  a  dog  show  grief,  anger,  recognition,  dream- 
ing ?     How  could  you  tell  that  a  one-celled  animal  was  moving 
'impulsively'? 

(6)  Give  from  memory  some  of  the  differences  between  your 
mind  as  a  young  child  and  your  mind  now.    How  do  old  people's 
minds  differ  from  your  own  ? 

(7)  Write  out  a  list  of  the  chief  consciousnesses  that  have 
made  up  your  experience  to-day.      How  short  a  time  do  you 
think  a  consciousness  could  last ?     And  how  long  a  time?     Give 
an  instance   of  a  sudden   change   from   one   consciousness   to 
another  of  quite  a  different  kind. 

(8)  What  is  the  physiological  function  of  the  brain?     If  it 
is  the  function  of  the  stomach  to  digest,  and  that  of  the  liver  to 
secrete  bile,  the  brain  must  have  a  similar  office,  as  a  bodily 
organ.     That  office  is  not  to  secrete  thought  and  feeling :  what 
is  it?     (H.,  18;  F.,  7.) 

(9)  What  is  your  earliest  notion  of  your  own  mind  that  you 
can  recall? 

(10)  State   definitely  what  assistance  a  physiologist  would 
derive  from  a  knowledge  of  psychology. 

(u)  What  is  meant  by  the  'explosion'  of  a  nerve-cell? 
(H.,  287 ;  F.,  145  ;  H.  H.  Donaldson,  The  Growth  of  the  Brain, 
1895,  p.  277.)  And  what  by 'cerebral  localisation'?  (F.,  pp. 
740  flf . ;  P.  Flechsig,  Gehirn  u.  SeeU,  1896;  Localisation  d. 
geistigen  Vorgdnge,  1896.) 

References  for  Further  Reading 

James,  Textbook  of  Psychology,  pp.  1-8,  78-120, 128-133, 151-160. 
Sully,  The  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  chs.  i.,  iii. ;  vol.  II.,  appendix  N. 
Titchener,  Outline  of  Psychology,  §§  1-6,  100. 
Wundt,  Lectures  on  Human  and  Animal  Psychology,  Lecture  I., 

§§1,2;  Lecture  XXX.,  §§  2,  3,  4. 
Wundt,  Outlines  of  Psychology,  §§  I,  2,  4,  22. 


The  diffi- 
culties of 
observing 


CHAPTER   II 
THE  METHOD  OF  PSYCHOLOGY 

§  10.  Observation.  —  The  first  thing  which  science 
demands  of  you  is  that  you  learn  to  observe.  Obser- 
vation, the  seeing  of  things  or  processes  as  they 
really  are,  is  by  no  means  easy.  "  There  is  not  one 
person  in  a  hundred,"  says  Huxley,  "who  can  describe 
the  commonest  occurrence  with  even  an  approach  to 
accuracy." 

There  are  four  reasons  why  observation  should  be 
difficult.  ( i )  In  the  first  place,  we  are  all  naturally 
careless ;  we  like  to  take  things  easily,  and  dislike 
making  a  sustained  effort.  Observation  requires 
great  care.  (2)  Secondly,  we  are  all  biassed  or 
prejudiced.  Thus  we  may  expect  to  see  a  certain 
thing,  or  want  to  see  a  certain  thing.  Under  these 
circumstances,  there  is  every  chance  of  our  seeing 
that  thing  when  it  is  not  there  to  see.  (3)  Thirdly, 
it  is  not  till  we  have  had  a  good  deal  of  practice  in 
observation  that  we  know  what  to  look  for;  in  our 
first  attempts  we  are  'all  at  sea,'  —  just  as  likely  to 
make  much  of  the  unimportant  as  to  single  out  the 
important  things.  (4)  And  lastly,  when  the  object 
of  observation  is  a  process,  something  that  continually 
changes,  we  may  be  confused  and  baffled  by  the 
change.  If  the  process  goes  on  slowly,  we  may  grow 
tired  of  observing,  and  so  overlook  some  of  its  stages ; 
if  it  goes  on  quickly,  we  may  not  have  time  to  notice 
them  all. 

24 


§  io.    Observation  2$ 

(i)  and  (2)  are  well  illustrated  by  the  game  of  'hunt- 
the-thimble.'  The  thimble  is  least  likely  to  be  found  if  you 
put  it  out  in  full  view  upon  a  central  table.  This  is  because 
the  seeker  is  too  careless  to  note  so  small  an  addition  to  the 
familiar  things  already  on  the  table,  and  because  he  is 
prejudiced  by  the  idea  thac  you  must  have  hidden  the 
thimble  in  some  very  '  unlikely '  place. 

(3)  is  illustrated  by  the  difficulty  that  we  all  have  of 
making  our  companion  on  a  country  walk  see  a  bird  that 
has  just  settled  on  a  tree  a  little  way  off.   When  he  has  found 
it,  when  he  knows  what  he  should  have  looked  for,  he  is 
surprised  that  he  did  not  see  it  at  once. 

(4)  may  be  psychologically  illustrated.     Go  into  a  dark- 
ened room,  and  look  straight  in  front  of  you.     You  will  see 
the   blackness   dotted   and   sprinkled   with   all   manner   of 
coloured  points  and  flashes  and  patterns,  which  pass  into 
one  another   like   '  dissolving  views.'      Try   to   follow   the 
changes,  describing  them  aloud  to  yourself. 

These  difficulties  may  all  of  them  be  overcome,  and  how  to 
however,  with  patience  and  practice.  The  reader 
who  has  worked  in  a  physical  or  chemical  laboratory 
will  remember  how  '  hopelessly  accurate '  physical 
measurements  and  chemical  analyses  seemed  at  first, 
but  how  in  time  it  became  as  natural  for  him  to  be 
careful  as  it  had  been  to  be  careless.  If  a  man  "  keep 
faithfully  busy  each  hour  of  the  working  day,"  says 
Professor  James,  "  he  may  safely  leave  the  final  result 
to  itself.  He  can  with  perfect  certainty  count  on 
waking  up  some  fine  morning,  to  find  himself  one  of 
the  competent  ones  of  his  generation,  in  whatever 
pursuit  he  may  have  singled  out."  And  the  sci- 
entific man  would  not  know  so  well  what  his  diffi- 
culties were,  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  surmount 
them. 


26  The  Method  of  Psychology 

§11.  Experiment.  —  Wherever  it  is  possible,  science 
employs  experiment  in  its  observations.  An  experi- 
ment is  simply  an  observation  made  under  standard 
conditions.  When  an  event  happens  in  nature,  it 
happens  under  all  sorts  of  conditions,  some  of  which 
are  its  conditions  (the  circumstances  under  which  it 
occurs),  while  others  are  of  no  importance  for  it,  but 
are  present  accidentally,  as  it  were, —  merely  because 
nature  is  so  enormously  complicated.  In  order  to 
sift  out  the  true  conditions  from  their  chance  accom- 
paniments we  perform  experiments.  We  arrange 
the  conditions  under  which  the  event  shall  occur,  in 
such  a  way  ( i )  that  other  investigators  can  repeat  our 
observation,  and  (2)  that  they  and  we  can  vary  one 
condition  after  another,  and  see  how  the  event  is 
affected  by  the  change.  Hence  an  experiment  is 
both  an  observation  that  can  be  repeated,  and  an 
observation  that  can  be  explained.  These  two  prop- 
erties of  the  experiment  are  indicated  by  the  words 
'  standard  conditions.' 

In  many  cases  an  experiment  enables  us  to  reproduce 
and  explain  an  event  that  in  nature  requires  long  ages  for 
its  accomplishment.  Thus  the  geologist  finds  that  certain 
rocks  have  been  smoothed  or  hollowed,  to  all  appearances, 
by  the  action  of  sand  driven  against  their  surface  by  the 
wind.  Taking  a  piece  of  rock  to  his  laboratory,  and  driving 
sand  against  it  at  high  pressure  by  the  '  sand  blast,'  he  is 
able  to  satisfy  himself  that  the  wind  and  sand  could  produce 
the  observed  effects. 

So  the  formation  of  shores  and  of  river  beds,  which  in 
nature  is  an  exceedingly  slow  process,  can  be  shown  in  a 
few  minutes  experimentally,  by  pouring  a  stream  of  water 
upon  a  mixture  of  different  kinds  of  earth. 


§  12.    Psychological  Observation  27 

§   12.    Psychological     Observation.  —  Psychological  The  diffi- 
observation  has  all  the  difficulties  of  scientific  obser- 


vation  in  general,  and  some  added  difficulties  of  its  cal°t>serva. 

tion 

own.  Our  mental  processes  are  so  familiar  to  us, 
we  think  we  know  ourselves  so  well,  that  we  are 
liable  to  be  very  careless  and  very  prejudiced  in 
our  account  of  our  own  mind.  Again,  even  if  we 
take  the  psychologist's  warning  to  heart,  and  resolve 
to  look  at  ourselves  carefully  and  impartially,  we  are 
at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  look  for:  what  we  have 
always  taken  most  for  granted  may  be  altogether 
imaginary,  and  quite  unlike  the  reality.  And  lastly, 
of  all  the  processes  that  we  could  set  out  to  exam- 
ine, mental  processes  are  the  least  tangible  and  the 
most  elusive. 

Moreover,  psychological  observation  is  observation  or  intro- 
by  each  man  of  his  own  experience,  of  mental  pro- 
cesses which  lie  open  to  him  but  to  no  one  else. 
Hence  while  all  other  scientific  observation  may  be 
called  inspection,  the  looking  at  things  or  processes, 
psychological  observation  is  introspection,  the  looking 
inward  into  oneself.  Now  '  observing  '  is  a  mental 
process.  When  we  are  observing  a  thing  or  process 
in  the  outside  world,  we  do  not  thereby  interfere 
with  it  :  the  fossils  are  there,  and  the  tadpole  goes 
on  growing,  whether  or  not  we  have  turned  them 
into  mental  processes,  formed  ideas  of  them.  But 
when  we  are  observing  a  mental  process  the  case  is 
very  different.  We  are  now  interfering  with  what 
we  are  watching  :  our  consciousness  a  moment  ago, 
before  we  began  to  introspect,  was  made  up  of  cer- 
tain processes  ;  now  we  have  introduced  among  these 


28  The  Method  of  Psychology 

a  new  process,  —  the  mental  process  of  observation. 
Surely,  that  is  a  poor  method  of  observation  which 
changes  the  very  thing  that  we  want  to  observe ! 

To  get  over  this  difficulty,  you  must  wait  to  intro- 
spect until  the  processes  that  you  wish  to  examine 
have  passed  by.  Let  them  run  their  course  undis- 
turbed :  then  call  them  back  by  memory,  and  look 
at  them.  They  are  now  dead,  and  cannot  be  changed 
by  your  observation,  Only  take  care  that  you  do  not 
wait  too  long  before  recalling  them  If  a  post  mortem 
examination  is  to  be  of  any  use,  it  must  be  made  soon 
after  death.  And  decay  sets  in  among  mental  pro- 
cesses as  well  as  in  dead  bodies ;  we  may  '  forget ' 
them  entirely,  or  they  may  get  overrun  by  all  sorts 
of  other  and  more  recent  processes,  so  that  we  can- 
not live  them  over  again  just  as  they  were. 

The  chief  reason  for  the  occurrence  of  the  '  blanks '  in 
the  introspection  of  §  4  was  that  you  were  trying  to  observe 
your  ideas  while  they  were  going  on.  How  fatal  this  mis- 
take is  you  will  realise  at  once  if  you  seek  to  introspect  a 
feeling  during  its  course.  Try  to  observe  your  enjoyment, 
while  you  are  enjoying  yourself:  the  observation  drives  the 
enjoyment  out  of  mind  altogether.  You  do  not  drive  an 
idea  out  of  mind  in  the  same  way,  by  the  wrong  use  of 
introspection ;  but  you  alter  it  and  interfere  with  it  very 
considerably. 

Here,  as  before,  the  difficulties,  formidable  as  they 
seem,  can  be  overcome  by  hard  work.  Since  you 
carry  the  material  for  introspection  about  with  you, 
you  can  practise  it  at  all  times  and  in  all  places ;  and 
practice  makes  perfect.  For  some  little  while  you  will 
be  baffled ;  but  presently,  very  likely  when  you  are 
least  expecting  it,  you  will  come  face  to  face  with  a 


§  13.    The  Psychological  Experiment  29 

concrete  process  and  find  yourself  observing  it,  —  and 
then  you  are  on  your  way  to  be  a  psychologist. 

Many  of  our  most  interesting  mental  processes  are  very 
hard  to  catch,  and,  unless  one  seizes  upon  them  promptly, 
will  be  gone  before  there  is  an  opportunity  to  introspect 
them.  One  may,  however,  cultivate  an  attitude  of  alertness 
towards  one's  psychological  experiences,  may  learn  (as  it 
were)  to  meet  them  half-way,  —  or  rather  to  pounce  upon 
them  before  they  have  lapsed  from  memory  as  well  as  from 
the  present  consciousness. 

We  are  often  warned  by  moralists  against  '  giving  way  to  a  Morbid 
morbid  introspection,'  But '  morbid  introspection'  is  very  differ-  introspec 
ent  from  the  introspection  of  the  psychologist.  What  the  moral- 
ist condemns  is  a  continual  occupation  with  the  affairs  of  self,  to 
the  neglect  of  the  wider  interests  of  family  or  society  or  nation, 
—  an  exaggerated  notion  of  the  importance  of  one's  own  acts 
and  motives,  and  the  consequent  failure  to  see  oneself  in  a  right 
social  perspective.  In  other  words,  he  is  looking  at  the  practical 
side  of  life ;  whereas  the  psychologist's  interest  is  scientific. 
The  psychologist  introspects  his  own  mind  not  because  it  is 
worth  more  than  others,  but  because  it  is  the  only  mind  accessible 
to  him. 

§  13.   The  Psychological  Experiment.  —  Experiments  inpsychoi- 

,     ,    .  ,      ,  ,  . ,  ogy,  experi- 

are  more  needed  in  psychology,  perhaps,  than  in  any  mentsare 
other  science.  For  the  facts  of  nature  are,  at  any  needed 
rate,  open  to  all  observers  alike ;  whereas  the  facts 
of  mind  are  never  open  to  more  than  one  person. 
If  then  the  results  of  introspection  are  to  have  any 
scientific  value, — if  we  are  to  have  any  assurance 
that  they  hold  equally  for  all  minds,  —  they  must 
evidently  be  obtained  under  standard  conditions :  so 
that  every  enquirer  may  repeat  for  himself  the  obser- 
vations recorded  by  other  enquirers  as  true  in  their 
particular  cases. 


3O  The  Method  of  Psychology 

The  immediate  conditions  of  mental  processes  are 
brain  processes.  Hence  it  is  these  that  we  should 
record  and  vary,  if  we  were  able  to  perform  a 
direct  psychological  experiment.  Plainly,  however, 
we  cannot  get  at  our  brain  processes ;  the  brain  is 
locked  up  in  the  skull,  and  can  be  affected  only  in- 
directly, by  way  of  the  external  organs  of  the  body 
which  are  connected  with  it  by  nerve  fibres. 

Still,  experiment  is  possible.  The  processes  that 
go  on  in  a  particular  part  of  the  brain  are  condi- 
tioned (i)  by  the  excitations  coming  in  along  the 
nerves  that  lead  to  it,  and  (2)  by  the  state  of  all  the 
rest  of  the  brain.  .  The  excitations  are  dependent, 
in  their  turn,  upon  the  stimulation  of  the  external 
bodily  organ  from  which  the  nerves  start ;  so  that  by 
varying  the  stimulus  in  a  definite  way,  we  can  vary 
the  brain  processes  in  a  definite  way,  —  just  as  well 
as  if  we  had  access  to  them  directly.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  try  to  keep  the  rest  of  the  brain  in  the 
same  state  throughout  an  experiment  by  arranging 

(1)  that   disturbing   stimuli   shall   be   shut  off,   and 

(2)  that  the  observer's  '  frame  of  mind '  shall  remain 
the  same. 

Suppose,  e.g.,  that  we  wished  to  find  out  by  experiment 
how  our  idea  of  a  printed  word  is  formed,  —  whether  we 
read  it  letter  by  letter,  or  take  in  its  form  as  a  whole,  or  take 
in  the  form  and  certain  letters.  The  immediate  conditions  of 
the  idea  are  cortical  processes  in  the  back  of  the  head,  where 
the  excitations  carried  in  by  the  optic  nerve  are  received. 
These  are  out  of  our  power.  But  they  depend  (i)  upon  the 
excitations  coming  in  through  the  eye,  and  (2)  upon  the 
state  of  the  rest  of  the  cortex.  (\Ve  saw  in  §  6  that  the  cell- 
clusters  which  receive,  and  the  cell-clusters  which  send  out 


§  13.    The  Psychological  Experiment  31 

excitations  are  connected  by  nerve  fibres ;  the  same  thing 
is  true  of  all  the  different  receiving  clusters,  those  connected 
with  the  eye,  ear,  mouth,  skin,  etc.)  Now  we  can  control  the 
excitations,  because  we  can  present  to  the  eye  any  kind  of 
word- stimulus  that  we  care  to  use,  altering  or  omitting  par- 
ticular letters  of  the  word,  etc. ;  and  we  can  record  the  nature 
of  the  stimulus  in  every  case,  so  that  other  psychologists  are 
able  to  repeat  our  experiments.  We  try,  further,  to  keep  the 
rest  of  the  cortex  steady  ( i )  by  shutting  out  other  stimuli. 
Thus  we  work  in  a  darkened  room,  and  flash  the  word  on 
a  screen,  all  else  remaining  dark.  And  (2)  we  do  all  we 
can  to  preserve  an  equable  frame  of  mind ;  knowing  that  if 
the  thoughts  are  allowed  to  wander,  new  processes  will  be 
arising  in  various  parts  of  the  cortex,  and  the  equilibrium  of 
the  brain  will  have  been  upset. 

It  is  clear  that  in  most  cases  two  persons  are  needed  for  the 
performance  of  a  psychological  experiment.  The  '  subject '  or 
'  observer '  introspects  ;  the  '  experimenter '  arranges  the  condi- 
tions. Thus  the  subject  would  introspect,  in  the  instance  given, 
to  see  what  contribution  the  various  stimuli  made  to  the  forma- 
tion of  the  idea  under  investigation ;  the  experimenter  would 
arrange  the  instruments  for  flashing  the  stimuli,  would  do  his 
best  to  keep  the  subject  in  an  even  frame  of  mind,  and  would 
record  the  character  of  the  stimuli  given  and  any  indications  that 
the  observer  might  show  (by  incidental  remarks,  by  restlessness, 
etc.)  of  steadiness  or  unsteadiness  of  thought. 

In  this  way,  introspection  can  take  place  under  Community 
standard  conditions;  the  psychologist  can  experi- 
ment.  The  conditions  to  be  repeated  and  regulated 
are  those  of  (i)  stimulus  and  (2)  frame  of  mind.  If 
they  are  properly  described,  any  psychologist  can 
satisfy  himself  of  the  correctness  or  incorrectness 
of  a  result  obtained  by  any  other  psychologist :  he 
can  make  precisely  the  same  observation  under  pre- 
cisely the  same  circumstances.  If  a  number  of  psy- 
chologists, after  many  experiments,  reach  the  same 


The  Method  of  Psychology 


logical 
method. 


result,  that  result  is  a  psychological  fact  of  scientific 
value. 

§  14.  The  Method  of  Psychology.  —  It  follows,  from 
the  two  foregoing  Sections,  that  the  method  of  psy- 
chology is  the  method  of  experimental  introspection. 
Only  by  looking  inward  can  we  gain  knowledge  of 
mental  processes  ;  only  by  looking  inward  under  stand- 
ard conditions  can  we  make  our  knowledge  scientific. 
Experimental  Even  when  we  are  examining  a  mind  as  if  it  were 
an  orjject  in  the  outside  world,  —  when  we  are  trying 
to  understand  the  mental  processes  of  a  child  or  a 
dog  or  an  insect  as  shown  by  conduct  and  action,  the 
outward  signs  of  mental  processes,  —  we  must  always 
fall  back  upon  experimental  introspection.  For  our 
own  mind  is  our  only  means  of  interpreting  the  mind 
of  another  organism ;  we  cannot  imagine  processes 
in  another  mind  that  we  do  not  find  in  our  own. 
Experimental  introspection  is  thus  our  one  reliable 
method  of  knowing  ourselves ;  it  is  the  sole  gateway 
to  psychology. 

Psychology  is  a  very  old  science :  we  have  a  complete 
treatise  from  the  hand  of  Aristotle  (B.C.  384-322).  But  the 
experimental  method  has  only  recently  been  adopted  by 
psychologists  ;  the  first  psychological  laboratory  was  opened 
by  Professor  Wundt  at  Leipsic  in  1878-9.  It  now  seems 
certain  that  there  is  no  mental  process  that  cannot  be 
observed  experimentally.  There  are  many  that  have  not 
yet  been  satisfactorily  investigated ;  but  the  reason  is  simply 
that  the  use  of  the  experimental  method  requires  training 
and  practice,  and  that  twenty  years  is  too  short  a  timeNfor 
the  re-making  of  a  whole  science. 

Let  us  take  an  instance  to  show  that  experiment  is  possible 
under  very  unfavourable  conditions.  We  said  in  §  6  that  it  is 


The  first 
psychologi- 
cal labora- 
tory. 


§  1 5.    General  Rules  for  Introspection          33 

only  when  the  cortical  cells  which  receive  incoming  excitations 
are  exploded  that  a  mental  process  arises.  But  it  is  plain  that, 
when  once  these  cells  have  been  exploded  by  an  excitation 
coming  from  the  outside,  they  can  be  exploded  later  from  the 
inside.  Thus  we  should  never  know  what  green  was  unless  a 
certain  stimulus  had  been  presented  to  the  eye  and  the  green- 
cells  of  the  cortex,  if  we  may  use  that  phrase,  had  been  exploded 
by  the  excitation  sent  inwards  along  the  optic  nerve.  But  when 
once  we  have  '  seen '  green,  we  know  what  green  is :  we  can 
remember  green,  or  imagine  it,  even  if  we  are  looking  at  black  or 
red.  The  green-cells  are,  in  this  case,  exploded  from  within  (by 
the  action  of  neighbouring  or  connected  cells,  by  change  of  blood 
supply,  etc.)  ;  there  is  no  external  stimulus.  Here,  then,  the 
circumstances  are  as  unfavourable  for  experiment  as  they  can 
well  be ;  we  seem  to  have  no  control  over  the  excitation,  the 
bodily  condition  of  the  remembered  or  imagined  green. 

Nevertheless,  we  can  experiment.  For  we  can  (i)  keep  dis- 
tracting stimuli  away,  and  (2)  introspect  the  memory-green  or 
fancy-green  in  an  even  frame  of  mind.  These  are  standard 
conditions ;  they  can  be  accurately  recorded  by  the  psychologist 
who  introspects ;  and  they  can  be  repeated  by  other  psycholo- 
gists after  him. 

§  15.    General  Rules  for  Introspection.  —  The  rules  Special  and 
for   introspection    are   of   two    kinds :    general    and  oHntrospec-5 
special.     The  latter  refer  to  the  regulation  of  stimu-  tion- 
lus,  and  differ  in  different  investigations  ;  the  former 
refer  to  the  frame  of  mind,  and  must  be  observed  in 
all  investigations  alike. 

Suppose,  e.g.,  that  you  were  trying  to  find  out  how  small  Special  rules 
a  difference  you  could  distinguish  in  the  smell  of  beeswax;   °fmtrospec 
that  is,  how  much  greater  the  surface  of  the  stimulus  must 
be  made  if  the  sensation  of  smell  is  to  become  noticeably 
stronger.     It  would  be  a  special  rule  that  you  should  work 
only  on  dry  days  ;  for  beeswax  smells  much  stronger  in  wet 
than  in  fine  weather.     Or  if  you  were  trying   to   discover 
how  well  you  could  call  up  the  smell  of  beeswax  in  your 
mind,  without  having  the  wax  under  your  nose,  it  would  be 
o 


34 


The  Method  of  Psychology 


General 
rules: 


a  special  rule  that  you  should  perform  the  experiment  in  a 
perfectly  odourless  room,  so  that  the  excitation  set  up  from 
inside  the  brain  should  not  be  interfered  with  by  foreign 
stimulations  set  up  in  the  smell-cells  of  the  nose.  Again,  if 
you  were  trying  to  distinguish  all  possible  tints  of  blue,  it 
would  be  a  special  rule  that  you  should'  work  always  by  the 
same  illumination :  always  by  dull  daylight,  or  always  by 
the  same  electric  light,  etc.  For  a  blue  seen  in  sunlight  is 
different  from  the  same  blue  seen  in  dull  daylight. 

The  general  rules  of  experimental  introspection  are 
as  follows : 

impartiality,  (i)  Be  impartial.  Do  not  form  a  preconceived  idea 
of  what  you  are  going  to  find  by  the  experiment ;  do 
not  hope  or  expect  to  find  this  or  that  process.  Take 
consciousness  as  it  is. 

(2)  Be  attentive.     Do  not  speculate  as  to  what  you 
are  doing  or  why  you  are  doing  it,  as  to  its  value  or 
uselessness,  during  the  experiment.    Take  the  experi- 
ment seriously. 

(3)  Be  comfortable.      Do  not  begin  to  introspect 
till  all  the  conditions  are  satisfactory ;  do  not  work  if 
you  feel  nervous  or  irritated,  if  the  chair  is  too  high 
or  the  table  too  low  for  you,  if  you  have  a  cold  or  a 
headache.     Take  the  experiment  pleasantly. 

(4)  Be  perfectly  fresh.     Stop  working  the  moment 
that  you  feel  tired  or  jaded.     Take  the  experiment 
vigorously. 

The  reasons  for  these  rules  should  be  obvious.  Attention 
to  the  stimulus  makes  it  clearer,  and  holds  it  in  mind  longer. 
Moreover,  if  the  attention  wanders,  other  processes  than 
that  under  investigation  come  into  consciousness,  and  inter- 
fere with  the  experiment.  The  same  thing  happens  if  you 
are  uncomfortable.  Discomfort  draws  your  attention  from 


attention, 


comfort, 


freshness. 


Questions  and  Exercises  35 

the  object  of  the  experiment  to  the  source  of  the  uncomfort- 
able feelings.  And  fatigue  means  that  your  brain  is  not  in 
good  working  order. 

Summing  up,  then,  we  may  say  that  the  rule  of  psychological 
work  is  this.  Live  impartially,  attentively,  comfortably,  freshly, 
the  part  of  your  mental  life  that  you  wish  to  understand.  As 
soon  as  it  is  past,  call  it  back  and  describe  it, 

Questions  and  Exercises 

[The  exercises  will  be  best  performed  in  class,  or  by  several 
students  who  are  working  together,  as  comparative  results  are 
desirable.] 

(1)  Numerous  methods  may  be  devised  to  test  accuracy  of 
observation.     You  may,  e.g.,  draw  a  plan,  to  scale,  of  some  room 
familiar  to  you ;  putting  doors,  windows  and  furniture  in  their 
right  positions.     Or  draw  from  memory  the  distortion  that  an 
oblong  table  suffers  when  you  look  at  it  from  one  corner.     Or 
draw  pictures  from  memory  of  an  oak-leaf  and  an  elm-leaf.     Or 
have  some  simple  geometrical  construction,  some  arrangement  of 
dots  and  lines  and  curves,  drawn  on  a  blackboard :  look  at  it  for 
5  sec.,  and  then  try  to  reproduce  it  on  paper. 

If  two  or  three  persons  have  recently  witnessed  an  accident  or 
a  theatrical  performance,  or  have  been  present  at  a  social  gather- 
ing, let  them  write  out  a  detailed  account  of  what  they  experi- 
enced, and  compare  notes.  Or  let  a  number  of  people  walk  a 
certain  distance  down  a  country  road,  or  a  street,  and  afterwards 
write  out  their  experiences,  and  compare  notes. 

(2)  Four  newspapers  describe  the  same  gown  as  («)  gold 
brocade,  (b)  white  silk,  (c)  light  mauve,  and  (d)  sea-green,  with 
cream  or  ivory  sheen  on  it.    How  could  this  difference  of  opinion 
have  arisen? 

(3)  Newton  is  said  to  have  discovered  the  law  of  gravitation 
by  observing  the  fall  of  an  apple  from  the  bough.     Was  this  a 
simple  observation,  or  could  it  be  said  to  have  anything  of  the 
experiment  about  it  ? 

(4)  How  does  the  psychological  experiment  resemble,  and 
how  does  it  differ  from,  the  physical  or  chemical  experiment  ? 

(5)  Try  to  introspect  an  idea  while  it  is  going  on.     Intro- 
spection is  a  mental  process,  or  rather  a  group  of  mental  pro- 


36  The  Method  of  Psychology 

cesses.  Hence  the  consciousness  which  contained  the  idea  is 
intruded  on  by  other  processes  from  the  moment  that  you  begin 
to  introspect.  What  are  these  other  processes  that  make  up 
introspection?  In  other  words:  what  changes  do  you  find  set 
up  in  consciousness  by  your  attempt  to  introspect  an  idea  (say, 
that  of  an  elephant)  while  it  is  still  passing  through  your  mind  ? 

(6)  You  may  test  the  power  of  bias  in  this  way.     Make  a 
series  of  coloured  papers,  choosing  those  that  are  as  nearly  as 
possible  of  the  same  brightness,  that  range  from  pure  red  to  a 
pronounced  bluish  red.     Cut  a  circle,  of  about  2  cm.  diameter, 
from  each  sheet.     Give  the  observer  a  rolled  tube  of  black  card- 
board to  look  through.     Tell  him  that  you  are  going  to  show 
him  a  series  of  reds,  beginning  with  pure  bright  red  and  passing 
into  very  dark  red ;  and  ask  him  to  say  when  the  first  really  dark 
red  comes.     Now  lay  the  circles  one  by  one  on  the  table,  in  the 
order  from  red  to  bluish  red,  letting  the  observer  see  each  in 
turn  for  some  2  sec.     See  how  far  the  series  can  go  before  he 
says  :  <l  The  reds  are  not  getting  darker ;  they're  getting  bluer  !  * 

Or  take  a  long  piece  of  wire.  Let  the  subject  close  his  eyes, 
and  give  him  one  end  to  hold.  Tell  him  that  you  are  going  to 
put  the  other  end  in  a  candle  flame,  and  ask  him  to  say  when  he 
senses  the  heat.  Take  the  other  end  in  your  hand :  walk  up  to 
the  table  on  which  the  subject  knows  the  candle  stands,  and 
strike  a  match,  —  but  do  not  light  the  candle.  Notice  by  the 
seconds'  hand  of  your  watch  how  long  it  is  before  the  subject 
senses  the  imaginary  heat.  If  the  experiment  fails,  he  is  already 
so  far  an  impartial  observer ;  but  probably  it  will  not  fail. 

(7)  What  are  the  characteristics  of  a  good  ' subject'?     Of  a 
good  experimenter? 

(8)  Can  you  get  from  psychological  observation  and  experi- 
ment any  advantages,  in  the  way  of  mental  training,  which  you 
cannot  get  from  observation  and  experiment  in  the  other  sci 
ences  ? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  pp.  160-175. 
Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  ch.  ii. 
Titchener,  Outline,  §§  9,  10,  33. 
Wundt,  Lectures,  Lect.  I.,  §  3. 
Wundt,  Outlines,  §  3. 


CHAPTER   III 

SENSATION 

§  1 6.  Sensations  and  their  Classification. — A  sensa- 
tion is  an  elementary  mental  process.  It  cannot  be 
split  up,  by  the  most  persistent  introspection  under 
the  strictest  conditions,  into  any  simpler  processes. 

It  is  a  characteristic  of  sensation  that  it  comes  to  Definition  of 
consciousness  by  way  of  a  special  bodily  organ,  a  s 
sense-organ.      Or,    in   more   technical   language,   its 
bodily  condition  is  the  stimulation  of  some  particular 
bodily   organ.    'We   are    accustomed   to   think   that 
there  are  five  of  these  sense-organs :  eye,  ear,  nose 
mouth  and  skin.     Scientific  investigation  has  shown, 
however,  that  there  are  more  than  twice  that  num- 
ber. 

Remember  that  a  sensation  never  occurs  quite  alone  in  our 
mind ;  consciousness  is  always  made  up  of  more  than  one  pro- 
cess. We  can,  however,  get  an  approximately  pure  sensation 
by  experiment.  We  shut  off  distracting  stimuli,  and  focus  our 
attention  upon  some  single  process  in  consciousness  (cf.  §  8). 

Remember,  too,  that  the  ;  particular  bodily  organ '  may  mean 
either  (i)  the  external  organ,  like  eye  or  ear,  or  (2)  the  part 
of  the  brain  cortex  to  which  the  nerves  from  eye  or  ear  run  (cf. 
§  14,  and  Question  1 1,  p.  23). 

As   every   sensation   is   set   up   in    some    definite  The  different 

,  .....  kinds  of  sen- 

bodily  organ,  we  shall,  naturally,  classify  sensations  sation. 
by  grouping  them  under  the  organs  through  which 
they  come.     We  shall  thus  have  eye  sensations,  nose 
sensations,  skin  sensations,  etc.,  to  describe  and  dis- 

37 


38  Sensation 

cuss.  There  are,  however,  some  organs  that  give  us 
more  than  one  set  of  sensations :  thus  the  ear,  which 
we  think  of  as  giving  us  only  sensations  of  hearing, 
really  gives  us  a  very  different  sensation  as  well, — 
the  sensation  of  giddiness.  And  there  are  different 
organs  that  furnish  similar  sensations  :  thus  not  only 
the  skin,  but  the  joints  also,  furnish  the  sensation 
of  pressure.  The  reason  is  simple.  What  we  call 
the  ear  contains  two  different  cell-groups,  connected 
by  nerves  with  different  parts  of  the  cortex;  while 
skin  and  joint  contain  similar  cell-groups,  connected 
with  the  same  or  similar  parts  of  the  cortex.  We 
shall,  of  course,  take  account  of  these  facts  in  making 
out  our  list  of  sensations. 

§  17.  Sensations  from  the  Eye.  —  The  eye  is  the 
most  elaborate  and  the  most  important  of  the  instru- 
ments by  which  we  gain  knowledge  of  the  outside 
world.  It  is  a  single  sense-organ,  and  all  the  sensa- 
tions that  come  through  it  are  sensations  of  one 
kind,  —  sensations  of  sight.  But  the  human  eye  has 
'  evolved ' ;  it  is  the  final  product  of  a  long  course  of 
development,  during  which  the  organ  has  gradually 
become  more  and  more  delicate.  Hence  we  can 
distinguish  two  strata  of  sight  sensations ;  a  lower, 
primitive  layer,  which  dates  as  far  back  as  the  exist- 
ence of  the  organ  of  sight  itself;  and  a  later,  more 
complicated  layer,  which  has  appeared  more  recently. 
The  primitive  sensations  are  those  of  black,  white 
Sensations  of  and  grey.  We  can  distinguish  a  large  number  of 
ess>  these  brightness  sensations,  as  they  are  called.  But 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  general  difference 


§  1 7.    Sensations  from  the  Eye  39 

between  black  and  white,  light  and  dark,  is  sensed 
even  by  the  eye-specks  of  the  jelly-fish.  The  later 
sensations  are  those  of  colour. 

Colour  sensations  fall  into  four  series  or  lines.  Sensations  ol 
The  first  runs  from  red  to  yellow,  through  reddish 
yellow  or  orange ;  the  second  from  yellow  to  green, 
through  yellowish  green;  the  third  from  green  to 
blue,  through  greenish  blue ;  the  fourth  from  blue 
back  again  to  red,  through  bluish  red  (violet  and 
purple).  All  the  colours  but  purple  are  contained 
in  the  rainbow,  and  in  the  artificial  rainbow,  the 
solar  spectrum. 

In  ordinary  conversation  we  speak  of  black,  white  and  grey 
as  'colours.'  Notice  that  they  belong  to  a  different  group  of 
sensations  from  the  true  colours,  and  that  they  should  be  called 
'brightnesses'  or  'colourless  visual  sensations.' 

The  best  way  to  understand  the  eye  is  to  think  of  it  as  The  eye  a 

a  photographic  camera.     It  has  an  automatic  diaphragm,  photographic 

camera, 
the   iris  (the  circle  that  we  refer  to   when  we  speak  of 

'brown'  or  'blue'  eyes),  which  regulates  the  opening  of 
the  pupil  according  to  illumination.  Behind  the  iris,  in  the 
pupil,  is  a  lens  which  focusses  automatically,  —  not  by 
coming  forwards  or  retiring  inwards,  but  by  altering  its 
curvature.  Behind  the  lens  is  a  dark  chamber.  The  back 
wall  of  this  chamber  is  covered  by  a  sensitive  film,  the 
nervous  network  or  retina,  upon  which  visual  images  are 
formed.  The  film  is  self-renewing,  so  that  images  can 
succeed  one  another  upon  it  very  rapidly.  The  action  of 
light  upon  it  sets  up  processes  of  chemical  decomposition, 
just  as  in  the  real  photographic  plate.  (//.,  Lesson  IX. ; 
N.,  ch.  xliii.) 

Even  if  we  knew  nothing  of  the  eyes  of  lower  animals,   sensations  ol 

we  should  be  forced  to  believe  that  the  brightness  sensa-  br'ghtness 

•  are  older 

tions  are  more  primitive  than  those  of  colour.     Objects  may  tnan  tnose  Of 

be  black  or  white  or  grey ;  they  need  not  show  the  faintest 


4o 


Sensation 


The  system 
of  sight  sen- 
sations. 


trace  of  colour.  But  we  never  see  a  '  pure  '  colour ;  every 
colour  that  we  know  is  really  a  mixture  of  pure  colour  with 
brightness.  If  you  look  at  a  spectrum  in  very  faint  light, 
you  do  not  see  any  colour  in  it  at  all ;  you  see  a  band  of 
grey.  Evidently,  then,  this  grey  must  be  present  in  the 
colours  when  you  do  see  them.  Again  :  people  may  be 
perfectly  colour-blind,  and  still  see  things  in  the  world  as 
black  and  white  and  grey.  But  if  people  are  brightness- 
blind,  if  they  do  not  see  black  and  white  and  grey,  they 
are  totally  blind  and  do  not  see  anything.  And  again :  the 
retina  has  a  more  complicated  structure  in  the  central  than 
in  the  surrounding  parts  of  its  surface.  But  it  is  only  in 
the  central  parts  that  we  see  all  the  colours ;  as  we  move 
out  over  the  outlying  parts  we  gradually  lose  the  colour 
sense,  until  finally,  at  the  edges  of  the  retina,  we  see  nothing 
but  brightness. 

In  order  to  get  an  idea  of  the  enormous  number  of  sight 
sensations,  —  brightnesses  and  colours  (remember  thaf 
'  colours '  are  really  mixtures  of  pure  colour  and  brightness)s 
—  it  is  worth  while  to  make  a  diagram. 

Suppose  that  we  have  a  square  surface  (a  piece  of  card  or 
paper),  which  is  tinted  a  neutral  grey,  —  a  grey  that  lies  exactly 
half-way  between  dead  black  and  brilliant  white.  Leaving  the 
grey  in  the  centre,  we  work  outwards  towards  the  edge  of  the 
square,  mixing  in  more  and  more  colour  as 
we  go.  At  the  four  corners  we  put  the  four 
principal  colours,  the  end-colours  of  the  four 
colour  series  (red,  yellow,  green  and  blue)  ; 
BG  along  the  sides  come  the  intermediate  col- 
ours. When  the  surface  of  the  square  is 
filled  in,  we  have  on  it  all  the  possible  sen- 
sations which  can  be  built  up  from  neutral 
grey,  —  all  those  which  are  of  the  same 
brightness-value  as  that  grey  ;  beginning  with  the  grey  itself,  and 
ending  with  the  purest  colours  that  can  be  got  with  this  grey  in 
them.  Thus,  passing  from  green  to  the  centre  we  have  green, 
slightly  grey  green,  greyer  green,  still  greyer  green,  .  .  .  grey ; 
and  similarly  with  the  other  colours  (Fig.  i). 


§  1 7.   Sensations  from  the  Eye 


Now  we  take  a  second  card,  tinted  a  little  darker  grey,  and 
mix  in  our  colours  as  before.  The  corner  colours  will  be  differ- 
ent ;  red  will  be  getting  a  tinge  of  reddish  brown,  yellow  a  tinge 
of  brown,  green  a  touch  of  olive  and  blue  a  touch  of  indigo. 
Since  we  cannot  distinguish  so  many  shades  between  this  darker 
grey  and  reddish  brown,  etc.,  as  between  the  neutral  grey  and 
red,  etc.,  our  square  will  be  a.  little  smaller  than  the  former  square 

We  take  a  third  square,  tinted 
a  little  lighter  grey,  and  proceed 
as  before.  Red  now  verges  to 
flesh-colour;  yellow  to  straw- 
colour  ;  green  becomes  pale 
green ;  blue  tends  towards  sky- 
blue.  Our  square  is  again  a 
little  smaller  than  the  first  was. 

So  we  go  on,  until  our  central 
grey  becomes  dead  black  in  the 
one  direction  and  brilliant  white 
in  the  other :  the  squares  grow 
smaller  and  smaller,  till  at  last 
(at  black  and  white)  we  have 
only  points,  not  surfaces  at  all. 
Laying  the  squares  together,  in 
the  right  order,  we  have  a  double 
pyramid  (Fig.  2).  The  line  join- 
ing apex  to  apex  is  the  black- 
grey-white  line  ;  the  square  base 
is  surrounded  by  the  purest 
colours  that  we  can  get ;  the  out- 
side surface  shows  the  browns, 
olives,  pinks,  pale  greens,  etc. :  and  wherever  we  cut  into  the 
pyramid  we  have  a  sensation-line  running  from  a  given  colour 
to  a  given  grey.  When  all  the  sensations  are  counted  up,  they 
amount  to  more  than  30,000. 

The  explanation  of  sight  sensations,  the  statement  of  their  Hering's 

bodily  conditions,  is  a  difficult  matter,  and  the  reader  must  tl?eor-v  of 

~  .  vision, 

take  it  largely  on  trust.     The  most  satisfactory  explanation 

that  we  have  at  present  we  owe  to  Professor  Hering,  now 
professor  of  physiology  in  the  University  of  Leipsic.  In  its 
latest  form  it  is  briefly  as  follows : 


42  Sensation 

(1)  There  are  in  the  '  visual  apparatus  '  (retina,  or  parts  of 
the  brain  connected  with  it,  or  both)  three  chemical  substances 
that  are  differently  affected  by  light  (i.e.,  by  ether  waves). 

(2)  Each  substance  is  the  seat  of  two  chemical  processes, 
decomposition  and  ^composition.     The  two  processes  are 
attended  by  two  different  sensations  in  each  case.     In  one 
substance,  the  processes  give  us  white  and  black ;  in  another, 
red  and  green ;  in  the  third,  yellow  and  blue.     There  are 
thus  six  different  chemical  processes  that  can  be  set  up  in 
the  retina ;  and  from  the  six  principal  sensations  accompany- 
ing them  we  can  get  the  whole  sum  of  sight  sensations. 
Pale  purple,  e.g.,  means  a  mixture  of  the  white-process,  the 
red-process  and  the  blue-process ;  all  three  substances  are 
called  upon  to  furnish  it. 

(3)  The  black-white  substance  is  affected  by  every  light 
stimulus  ;  the  other  two  substances  only  by  certain  forms  of 
stimulus. 

(4)  If  red  and  green  light  fall  upon  the  same  part  of  the 
retina,  the  colours  cancel  each  other,  and  nothing  is  left  but 
a  sensation  of  grey.     This  is  because  the  chemical  processes 
of  decomposition  and  recomposition  are  antagonistic  or  op- 
posite processes ;  they  work  against  each  other  in  the  visual 
substance. — The  same  thing  is  true  of  yellow  and  blue. 

If  black  and  white  fall  on  the  same  part  of  the  retina, 
however,  we  see  a  mixture  of  black  and  white,  a  grey ;  there 
seems  to  be  no  cancelling  of  black  by  white,  as  there  is  of 
green  by  red.  Really,  black  and  white  do  cancel  each  other 
in  the  retina ;  there  is  no  grey-process  there.  But  the  corti- 
cal cells  with  which  the  optic  nerve  is  connected  are  always 
in  a  state  of  commotion  (owing  to  changes  of  temperature, 
etc.),  whether  there  is  a  stimulus  before  the  eye  or  not;  and 
this  commotion  gives  us  the  '  intrinsic '  or  '  subjective '  sight 
sensation,  the  sensation  of  grey.  (See  F.,  902.) 

Sensations  of  §  1 8.  Sensations  from  the  Ear.  —  Next  in  impor- 
tance to  the  eye  stands  the  ear.  Sensations  of  hear- 
ing, like  those  of  sight,  have  evolved  or  developed; 


§  1 8.    Sensations  from  the  Ear  43 

and  we  can  distinguish  two  stages  of  hearing  sensa- 
tions, (i)  sensations  of  noise  and  (2)  sensations  of 
tone.  But  we  can  go  back  a  step  farther.  All  sen- 
sations of  hearing  have  been  in  some  way  developed 
from  sensations  of  jar  or  shake,  which  were  not 
heard  at  all. 

The  human  ear  is  extremely  complicated ;  but  it 
has  kept  some  of  the  primitive  shake-organs  along- 
side of  the  later  growth.  The  shake-organ,  as  we 
have  it  ourselves  now,  has  nothing  to  do  with  hear- 
ing, and  must  therefore  be  treated  of  separately. 

(a)  The  Ear  as  Organ  of  Hearing.  —  Our  sensations 
of  hearing  are  (i)  sensations  of  simple  noise,  corre- 
sponding to  the  brightness  sensations  of  the  eye,  and 
(2)  sensations  of  tone,  corresponding  to  colour  sensa- 
tions. A  noise  is  hard  and  unmusical ;  it  is  set  up 
by  a  shock  or  jerk  of  the  air-particles.  A  tone  is 
smooth  and  musical ;  its  stimulus  is  a  repeated  wave- 
movement  of  the  air-particles.  The  pop  of  a  soap- 
bubble  is  a  noise ;  the  sound  that  you  get  by  blowing 
across  the  mouth  of  a  bottle  is  a  tone. 

Although  tones  and  noises  sound  together  far  more  often 
than  they  sound  separately,  and  mix  very  readily,  their  mixt- 
ure is  never  complete  enough  to  give  us  a  simple  sensation, 
as  that  of  colour  and  brightness  does.  The  '  tone '  of  a  vio- 
lin owes  a  good  deal  of  its  effectiveness  to  the  noise  made 
by  scraping  the  bow  over  the  strings ;  but  we  are  quite  well 
able  to  distinguish  the  scrape  from  the  accompanying  musi- 
cal tone. 

A  tone  diagram  would  be  a  spiral  line,  like  a  screw-thread, 
with  the  deepest  bass  tone  at  the  one  end.  the  shrillest  treble  tone 
at  the  other,  and  the  rest  arranged  in  musical  order  between  the 
two.  Round  each  circle  of  the  spiral  are  set  the  tones  that  we 


44 


Sensation 


The  ear  a 
piano. 


Sensation  of 
giddiness. 


can  distinguish  within  the  limits  of  an  octave.  The  line  must  be 
made  spiral,  i.e.,  must  keep  returning  as  it  advances  towards  the 
point  from  which  it  started,  because  the  tones  that  bound  an 
octave  are  more  nearly  like  each  other  than  any  other  two  tones 
upon  the  scale ;  just  as  the  colours  that  bound  the  spectrum,  red 
and  violet,  are  more  like  each  other  than  are  any  other  two  col- 
ours in  the  spectral  series.  On  the  screw-thread  these  limiting 
tones  lie  directly  above  and  below  one  another.  Music  employs 
only  about  90  of  the  11,000  tones  that  we  can  distinguish.  The 
reasons  for  this  curious  fact  we  shall  discuss  later  (§  42).  —  The 
noise  diagram  would  be  a  straight  and  much  shorter  line ;  we 
cannot  distinguish  nearly  so  many  noises  as  tones ;  and  there  is 
no  recurring  likeness  of  noise  to  noise,  to  make  the  line  a  spiral. 

If  the  eye  is  a  little  camera,  the  organ  of  hearing  is  a  tiny 
piano  :  a  piano  with  a  keyboard  for  the  air  to  play  on,  with 
11,000  strings  behind  the  keyboard,  and  with  a  damper  to 
stop  the  movement  of  the  strings  after  they  have  sounded. 
(That  is  why  we  can  speak  so  quickly ;  the  sound  of  each 
word  is  damped  before  the  next  word  comes.)  When  the 
pianist  is  a  system  of  air-waves,  we  hear  a  tone  ;  when  it  is 
an  air-shock,  a  noise.  Generally,  several  pianists  of  both 
kinds  are  playing  together.  (J7.,  215  ff. ;  N.,  chs.  xxxiv.  ff.) 

(<£)  The  Ear  as  Organ  of  Equilibrium.  —  The  part 
of  the  ear  which  resembles  the  primitive  shake- 
organ  gives  us  the  sensation,  not  of  tone  or  noise 
or,  indeed,  of  hearing  at  all,  but  of  giddiness.  Gid- 
diness means  that  we  have  been  shaken,  our  physi- 
cal balance  disturbed,  —  that  we  are  in  danger  of 
falling.  Hence  though  it  is  very  unpleasant,  it  is 
also  very  useful. 

We  might  lose  our  balance  in  three  ways :  by  confusing 
up  with  down,  back  with  front,  right  with  left.  And  there 
are  three  shake-organs  in  each  ear,  which  help  us  to  keep 
our  balance  steadily  in  these  three  directions  of  space. 
Nod  your  head  sharply  up  or  down,  turn  it  sharply  to  right 
or  left,  drop  it  sharply  towards  the  one  shoulder  or  the 


§  1 9.    Sensations  from  the  Skin  45 

other ;  in  every  case  you  will  get  a  momentary  giddiness. 
(F.,  729.) 

Fig.  3  shows  a  model  of  a  single  shake-organ.  The  grain  of 
sand,  s,  is  balanced  on 
the  hairs  coming  from  a 
group  of  cells  which  are 
connected  with  a  nerve, 
«.  You  can  easily  see 

that  a  shake  of  the  air  or  

water     surrounding     the  ^^^ 

organ    would     shift     the 

balance  of  the  grain  upon  the  hairs  and  bend  some  of  the  hairs 

down.     In  this  way  an  excitation  would  be  set  up  in  the  nerve, 

and  carried  to  the  brain. 

§  19.  Sensations  from  the  Skin.  —  The  skin  is  an  Sensations  of 
organ  of  a  very  different  character  from  the  eye  or  ^ 
the  ear.  For  it  is  not  merely  a  sense-organ :  it  has 
to  do  a  great  deal  for  the  body,  besides  furnishing 
sensations  for  consciousness.  Thus  it  protects  the 
underlying  organs  from  injury,  it  carries  the  hair  and 
nails,  it  contains  oil-glands  and  sweat-glands.  But 
there  are  in  it,  notwithstanding,  no  less  than  three 
distinct  kinds  of  sense-organs.  One  tells  us  of  the 
weight  of  objects  (sensation  of  pressure};  another  of 
their  temperature  (sensations  of  heat  and  cold) ;  and 
a  third  of  the  injury  they  are  doing  us  (sensation  of 
pain). 

You  cannot  get  these  four  sensations  from  any  and  every 
part  of  the  skin  ;  their  organs  are  sprinkled  or  dotted  over  its 
surface.  They  are  all,  probably,  very  old  sensations ;  press- 
ure and  pain,  at  any  rate,  are  older  even  than  white  and 
black  and  noise.  And  their  bodily  organs  are  simple ;  just 
little  bunches  of  nerve- fibrils,  sometimes  lying  by  themselves, 
and  sometimes  twined  round  the  root  of  a  hair  or  a  few  cells, 
in  the  thickness  of  the  skin.  (H.,  206  ff. ;  F.,  1037,  1044.) 


46  Sensation 

§  20.  Sensations  from  the  Mouth  and  Nose.  —  We 
may  treat  of  these  two  organs  together,  because 
their  sensations  are  intimately  blended  in  everyday 
experience,  and  because  the  office  of  both  of  them 
is  to  stand  guard  over  digestion,  to  secure  the  health 
of  the  internal  bodily  organs. 

Sensations  of  (a)  The  mucous  membrane  of  the  mouth  is  sensi- 
tive to  pressure,  heat  and  cold,  and  pain.  But  we 
also  get,  from  various  parts  of  the  cavity  of  the 
mouth,  the  four  sensations  of  taste:  sweet,  bitter, 
sour  and  salt. 

It  is  at  first  difficult  to  believe  that  there  are  no  more 
than  four  distinct  tastes.  But  what  we  call  '  taste '  in  ordi- 
nary conversation  is  for  the  most  part  a  mixture  of  smell 
and  taste.  The  reason  that  we  cannot '  taste '  things  when 
we  have  a  cold  in  the  head  is  that  the  nasal  passages  are 
blocked,  so  that  we  cannot  smell.  A  good  deal  of  our  daily 
food  is  absolutely  tasteless. 

Taste  At  different  parts  of  the  tongue  and  at  the  back  of  the 

mouth  we  find  little  bottle-shaped  pits.  The  mouth  of  the 
bottle  receives  the  taste  stimulus  (the  sweet,  etc.,  substance). 
Inside  the  bottle  are  the  taste  cells,  from  which  the  nerve  runs 
through  the  bottom  of  the  bottle  to  the  brain,  (ff.,  209.) 

Sensations  of  (£)  There  are  two  patches  of  mucous  membrane  in 
the  two  nostrils  which  give  us  sensations  of  smell. 
We  know  that  there  are  a  great  many  kinds  of  smell ; 
and  there  seem  to  be  groups  or  classes  of  smell  sensa- 
tions, like  those  of  tone  and  noise,  or  brightness  and 
colour.  But  we  cannot  yet  say  how  many  there  are, 
or  which  are  the  more  primitive. 

The  smell  cells  carry  hairs,  which  project  into  the  cavity 
of  the  nose,  and  catch  the  odorous  particles  as  they  are 
carried  into  the  nostrils  by  breathing.  (H.,  211.) 


§  21.    Sensations  from  Internal  Organs        47 

The  organ  of  smell  is  thus  more  simple  even  than  that  of  taste. 
It  may  be  that,  in  man,  the  organ  of  smell  is  degenerating,  while  that 
of  taste  is  not  changing.  This  would  account  for  the  difficulty  that  we 
have  in  deciding  the  number  of  different  smells  that  can  be  distin- 
guished. On  the  one  hand,  the  nose  is  very  readily  fatigued;  on 
the  other,  the  smell-brain  does  not  function  well,  —  we  have  largely 
lost  the  power  of  discriminative  attention  to  smells. 

§21.  Sensations  from  Internal  Organs.  —  A  last,  and 
by  no  means  unimportant  source  of  sensations  is  to 
be  found  in  certain  internal  bodily  organs.  With  two 
sets  of  these,  (i)  and  (2)  below,  we  are  fairly  well 
acquainted ;  of  the  rest,  brought  together  under  (3), 
we  know  very  little. 

(1)  Bone,  Muscle,  Tendon.  — The  bones  of  the  body 
turn  in  sockets.     They  are  moved  by  the  muscles, 
which  are  tied  to  them  by  sinews  or  tendons.     We 
have  from  the  muscles   sensations  of  pressure  and 
pain;  from  the  sinews  a  new  sensation,  that  of  strain;  strain. 
and  from  the  joints  or  bone-sockets  the  familiar  sen- 
sation of  pressure. 

(2)  The  Alimentary  Canal.  —  The  body  is  not  solid ;   Hunger, 
it  is  pierced  by  the  alimentary  canal,  whose  duty  is  nausea. 
to  take  in  food  and  get  rid   of  waste.     From  the 
upper  parts  of  this  canal  we  have  three  new  sensa- 
tions.    The  extreme  back  of  the  mouth  and  top  of  the 
throat  give  us  thirst ;  the  tube  running  from  mouth 

to  stomach,  nausea  or  sickness ;    the  stomach  itself. 
hunger.     No  new  sensations  come  from  the  intestines. 

(3)  It  is  probable  that  the  lungs,  blood-vessels  and  stuffiness. 
bladder  furnish  new  sensations.     We  have  lung  sen- 
sations  in  '  bracing '    and    '  stuffy '    feelings ;   blood- 
vessel sensations  in  tingling,  itching,  and  '  pins  and 
needles ' ;  and  bladder  sensations  in  the  '  stir  up '  of  the 
inside  organs  that  comes,  e.g.,  with  the  emotion  of  fear. 


48 


Sensation 


The  sense-organs  dotted  over  the  surface  of  the  joints 
resemble  those  found  in  the  skin.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
nerves  that  run  to  the  brain  from  muscle  and  tendon  start 
from  organs  which  are  peculiar  to  these  tissues.  Neverthe' 
less,  the  muscle  sensation  of  pressure  is  not  distinguishable 
from  the  skin  sensation  of  pressure.  There  may  possibly  be 
a  special  sensation  of  muscular  fatigue  :  but  this  is  very 
doubtful.  -  The  organs  of  hunger,  thirst  and  nausea  are  not 
known,  though  the  sensations  can  be  localised  in  the  mucous 
membrane  of  stomach,  soft  palate  and  oesophagus  respec- 
tively. (H.,  176,  203;  F.,  1048,  1059.) 

The  '  sensation  '  of  tickling  is  really  a  complex  of  sensa- 
tions. It  contains  a  light  pressure  sensation  ;  a  sensation  of 
temperature,  a  thrill  of  warmth  or  shiver  of  cold ;  a  sensa- 
tion due  to  change  of  blood-circulation,  of  the  same  kind  as 
tingling  and  itching ;  and,  probably,  a  number  of  muscular 
pressures,  due  to  the  spasmodic  contraction  of  the  muscle- 
sheet  lying  just  below  the  part  of  the  skin  to  which  the  weak 
stimulus  is  applied. 

Fig.  4.  (which  is  not  quite  accurate,  from  the  physical  stand- 
point, but  still  accurate 
enough  for  our  present 
purpose)  shows  how  the 
sensations  set  up  in 
muscle  and  tendon  may 
vary  independently  of 
each  other.  The  four 
diagrams  represent  the 
arm,  bent  at  the  elbow- 
joint  ;  the  upper  and 
lower  arms  are  held  to- 
gether by  a  muscle,  from 
either  end  of  which  ten- 
dons run  to  the  bones. 
In  a  and  b  there  is  the 
same  degree  of  muscular 
contraction,  though  the 


FIG.  4 


pull  upon  the  tendons  is  very  different ;  in  c  and  d  the  strain  is 
the  same,  but  the  muscles  are  differently  contracted. 


§  22.    Intensity  of  Sensations  49 

§  22.    Intensity  of    Sensations.  —  So   far   we   have  Quality  and 

.  .      .  intensity  of 

been  considering  only  one  aspect  of  sensations,  their  sensations. 
quality.  Quality  is  what  makes  one  sensation  differ- 
ent from  another.  All  the  different  tints  and  hues  of 
colour  are  qualities  of  sight  sensations ;  the  shades  of 
grey,  the  differences  of  tonal  pitch,  the  kinds  of  smell, 
are  all  qualities.  A  red  which  differs  from  another 
red  in  hue  is  a  different  sensation ;  a  tone  which 
differs  from  another  tone  in  pitch  is  a  different  sen- 
sation. 

But  a  sensation  may  remain  the  same  sensation, 
the  same  pitch  or  tint  or  smell,  and  yet  vary  in 
strength  or  intensity.  A  pressure  may  be  the  press- 
ure of  an  ounce  or  of  a  pound ;  it  is  always  pressure, 
one  quality,  but  its  strength  differs.  The  tone  that 
you  get  by  blowing  across  the  mouth  of  a  bottle  may 
be  loud  or  faint,  though  it  is  still  the  same  pitch, 
the  same  tone.  The  weight  you  carry  may  strain 
your  arm  very  little  or  a  great  deal ;  the  sensation  of 
strain  from  the  tendons  of  the  arm  is  the  same  in 
both  cases,  but  the  amount  of  it  is  different. 

Here  a  very  interesting  question  arises :  the  ques-  Relation  oi 

stimulus 

tion  whether,  if  I  add  to  the  amount  of  stimulus  (add  intensity  to 
to  the  heaviness  of  the  weight,  or  the  strength  of  the  sensanon 

intensity. 

sound,  or  the  illuminating  power  of  the  light)  I  add 
in  equal  measure  to  the  intensity  of  the  correspond- 
ing sensation.  Of  course,  the  strain  of  carrying  three 
pounds  is  greater  than  the  strain  of  carrying  one : 
but  is  the  strain  sensation  in  the  first  case  three  times 
as  strong  as  the  strain  sensation  in  the  second  ?  The 
answer  to  the  question  is  given  by  what  is  called 
Weber's  Law. 


Sensation 


Weber's 
law. 


Its  useful- 
ness. 


§  23.  Weber's  Law.  —  Suppose  that  I  have  laid  a 
pound  weight  in  the  scale,  and  measured  out  a  pound 
of  sugar.  If  I  add  another  pound  weight,  I.  must 
have  twice  as  much  sugar  to  balance  the  scales  ;  if 
I  add  a  third  pound,  three  times  as  much  sugar ;  and 
so  on. 

Now  suppose  that  I  am  measuring,  not  sugar,  but 
the  sensation  of  pressure.  A  pound  weight  on  the 
skin  gives  me  a  sensation  of  pressure,  P.  Two 
pounds  give  me  a  stronger  pressure,  —  let  us  say, 
P+ p.  Will  three  pounds  give  me  P  +  2p  ? 

Experiment  says  no.  If  my  pressure  sensations 
are  to  be  P,  P  +/,  P  +  2p,  P  +  $p,  etc.,  then  the 
weights  used  must  be  i  lb.,  2  Ibs.,  4  Ibs.,  8  Ibs., 
etc.  That  is :  if  the  third  pressure  is  to  be  as 
much  stronger  than  the  second  as  the  second  was 
than  the  first,  then  the  third  weight  must  be  pro- 
portionately as  much  larger  than  the  second  as 
the  second  was  larger  than  the  first.  To  get 
(P  +  p}  -  P  =  (P  +  2p)  -  (P  +  /),  we  must  have 
second  weight :  first  =  third  :  second  (or,  using  num- 
bers, 2  Ibs.  :  i  lb.  =  4  Ibs. :  2  Ibs.). 

The  usefulness  of  this  law  is  clear.  We  can  find  our  way 
about  in  the  world,  recognise  our  clothes,  books,  furniture, 
etc.,  as  well  on  a  dull  day  as  in  the  most  brilliant  sunshine. 
The  relation  of  the  brightnesses  remains  the  same  in  all  cases; 
and  a  difference  that  is  relatively  the  same  for  stimuli  is  abso- 
lutely the  same  for  sensation.  It  is  the  same  principle  that 
enables  us  to  appreciate  pictures,  —  to  see  that  this  paint- 
ing represents  a  seascape,  and  this  a  moonlight  effect.  And 
it  is  the  same  principle  that  enables  us  to  recognise  a  musical 
melody,  although  it  may  now  be  played  in  quite  a  different 
key  from  that  in  which  we  are  familiar  with  it.  —  The  reasons 


Questions  and  Exercises  51 

for  the  law  are  to  be  looked  for  in  the  physiological  behav- 
iour of  nervous  substance.  We  cannot  enter  upon  them 
here. 

E.  H.  Weber  (1795-1878),  after  whom  the  law  is  named,  was 
professor  of  physiology  in  the  University  of  Leipsic.  It  may 
interest  the  reader  to  know  of  one  of  Weber's  own  experiments : 
in  the  text  above  we  have  been  merely  'supposing.'  Weber 
found,  then,  in  experiments  with  weights,  that  it  is  just  as  difficult 
to  distinguish  between  the  pressure  of  29  and  30  half-ounces  as 
between  those  of  29  and  30  drachms ;  although  the  difference  of 
weight  in  the  first  case  is  four  times  as  great  as  it  is  in  the  second 
(i  oz.  =  8  dr.).  Sameness  of  difference  in  sensation  means  pro- 
portional sameness  of  difference  between  stimuli. 


Questions  and  Exercises 

(I)  Sight.     (Try  to  account  for  the  results  of  th«se  experiments 
by  applying  Bering's  explanation  to  them.) 

(a)  The  laws  of  colour  mixture. 

1.  Mix  on  the  colour-top  (not  with   pigments)  two 

neighbouring  colours  ;  red  and  orange,  indigo  and 
violet,  etc.  Notice  that  the  result  is  a  colour  that 
lies  midway  for  sensation  between  the  two  chosen. 

2.  Mix  two  complementary  or  antagonistic  colours,  to 

get  grey.  With  the  coloured  papers  (which  do 
not  give  Hering's  colours  exactly)  you  will  not  get 
a  grey  from  red  and  green ;  you  must  take  red 
and  bluish  green.  The  yellow  and  blue  will  be 
very  nearly,  if  not  exactly,  complementary. 

3.  Mix  three  colours  to  get  grey  :  red,  yellow,  greenish 

blue ;  red,  green,  violet ;  etc. 

4.  Mix  all  the  spectral  colours,  and  all  the  spectral 

colours  with  purple,  to  get  grey. 

(b)  The  persistence  of  vision  ;  after-images. 

5.  Look  steadily  at  a  red  patch  on  a  white  ground. 

After  20  sec.  remove  the  red,  and  you  will  see  a 
patch  of  the  antagonistic  colour  (bluish  green). 
Try  with  all  the  colours,  and  with  black.  Try 
with  white,  on  a  black  ground. 


52  Sensation 

(c)    Indirect  vision. 

6.  Bandage  the  left  eye,  and  look  steadily  with  the 
right  at  a  white  point  on  a  black  screen.  Let  an 
assistant  move  a  coloured  patch  (held  on  a  black 
straw)  from  the  white  point  outwards  (to  your 
right)  along  the  screen.  You  see  the  white 
point  with  the  centre,  the  moving  colour  with 
outlying  parts  of  the  retina.  Notice  that  the 
colour  changes,  as  it  moves  ;  and  that  finally  you 
see  no  colour  at  all,  but  simply  a  black  or  grey. 
—  Or  tack  the  coloured  patch  to  a  wall,  some 
distance  to  the  right  of  the  observing  eye. 
Look  straight  at  the  wall  in  front  of  you ;  and 
then  gradually  turn  the  eye  outwards,  toward 
the  patch.  Notice  the  change  of  colour,  as  the 
eye  moves. 

Contrast. 

7.  Lay  a  red  patch  on  a  white  sheet 

of  paper,  and  cover  both  with 
white  tissue-paper.  The  white 
surface  will-  seem  slightly  tinged 
with  bluish  green. 

8.  Cut  discs  like  that  of  Fig.  5  (where 

the  white  parts  stand  for  white, 
the    black    for    black,    and    the 
shaded   parts   for  some    colour) 
FlG-  5  and  spin  them  on  the  colour-top. 

If  the  colour  is  orange,  you  see  a  yellowish  sur- 
face with  a  bluish  ring;    if  it  is   green,  a  pale 
greenish. surface  with  a  purplish  ring;  etc. 
Contrast  is  due,  on  Hering's  explanation,  to  the  physiological 
reciprocity  of  the  different  regions  of  the  retina.     If  ^composi- 
tion is  set  up  at  one  point  of  the  retina,  /'^composition  is  set  up 
in  the  neighbouring  parts,  and  vice  versa.     If  we  look  at  a  blue 
patch  on  a  grey  ground,  we  have,  as  direct  effect  of  the  stimulus, 
a  sensation  of  blue  ;  as  its  indirect  effect,  a  sensation  of  yellow- 
grey  over  the  parts  of  the  grey  ground  that  adjoin  the  blue  patch 
—  Other  writers  regard  contrast  as  a  case  of  apperceptive  illusion 
(see  below,  p.  117).     In  all  probability,  however,  Hering's  view 
b  correct. 


Questions  and  Exercises 


53 


Hearing. 

(a)  Discrimination  of  tones. 

9.  Take  six  short  pieces  of  gutta-percha  tubing,  and 
soften  one  end  of  each  piece  in  warm  water. 
Pinch  this  end  together,  so  that  the  opening  is 
a  mere  slit.  Wire  the  pieces  to  the  necks  of  six 
bottles  so  that  you  get  their  tones  by  blowing 
into  the  tubing.  Tune  them  (by  pouring  water 
in,  as  required)  to  two  consecutive  notes  on  the 
piano :  three  of  them,  say,  to  the  c,  and  three  to 
the  osharp  of  the  middle  octave.  This  tuning 
must  be  done  by  some  one  with  musical  experi- 
ence and  a  good  musical  ear. 

Two  of  the  bottles,  a  c  and  a  osharp,  you  set 
aside  as  standards.  Now 
take  a  c  bottle,  and  pour 
in  a  very  little  water ;  thus 
raising  its  pitch  till  its  tone 
is  just  perceptibly  higher 
than  that  of  the  standard  c. 
Then  take  the  remaining  c 
bottle,  and  raise  its  pitch  in 
the  same  way,  till  it  sounds 
just  perceptibly  higher  than 
the  c  that  you  have  already 
raised.  Go  on  in  this  way 
with  the  two  bottles,  till  one 
of  them  sounds  the  same 
tone  as  the  osharp  standard.  Note  how  many 
tones  you  can  discriminate  between  the  c  and 
the  f-sharp.  —  At  the  first  trial  you  should  get 
at  least  8  intermediate  tones,  and  with  practice 
many  more. 

Repeat  the  experiment  with  the  tr-sharp  bottles, 
working  downwards  (by  pouring  water  out)  to- 
wards c.  Note  how  many  tones  you  can  hear 
between  the  <r-sharp  and  the  c . 

If  you  regard  the  experiment,  in  this  form,  as 
too  laborious,  use  one  of  a  set  of  Quincke's  tubes 
(Fig.  7).  The  cork  in  the  lower  tube  lowers  the 
tone  an  octave.  (iV.,  p.  366.)  Water  may  be 


FIG.  6 


54  Sensation 

poured    in,    as    required. 
Blow  evenly  and  steadily, 
and  not  too  strongly. 
(b)  Quality  of  noise. 

10.  Procure  a  number  of  drug- 
gist's sample  phials,  of  different  sizes.  Cork  them 
firmly,  and  arrange  them  in  the  order  of  size. 
Pull  the  corks  out  sharply,  in  succession.  You 
get  '  pops '  of  different  quality. 

Or  blow  a  large  and  a  small  soap-bubble,  and 
note  the  difference  in  their  snap.  The  small 
bubble  bursts  with  a  sharp  pop,  the  large  one 
with  a  thud.  These  are  qualities  of  noise ;  there 
is  no  tone  present. 

The  experiment  is  more  striking  if  you  use, 
instead  of  air,  a  mixture  of  hydrogen  and  air. 
In  that  case  you  touch  the  bubbles  off  with  a 
match.  Be  careful  that  they  are  well  away  from 
the  air-hydrogen  mixture  before  you  ignite  them. 

(3)  Pressure  and  Temperature  from  the  Skin. 

1 1 .  Mark  out  with  ink  a  square  centimetre  of  skin  on  the 

back  of  the  hand.  Work  over  this  lightly,  in  all 
directions,  with  a  piece  of  pointed  pith  or  cork. 
Move  the  point  slowly.  As  it  travels,  sensations 
of  pressure  will  flash  out  at  the  pressure-spots ;  be- 
tween the  spots  you  will  have  no  pressure  sensa- 
tion. Make  a  map  of  the  spots  on  a  square  cm. 
of  cross-section  paper,  putting  down  an  ink-dot 
•  for  every  spot. 

12.  Work  over  the  same  place  with  a  pointed  metal 

tube  filled  first  with  hot  and  then  with  cold 
water.  Sensations  of  heat  and  cold  will  flash 
out  at  the  temperature  spots  in  the  same  way ; 
between  the  spots  you  will  have  no  temperature 
sensation.  Make  maps  of  the  hot  and  cold  spots. 
Compare  the  three  maps  and  see  which  has  the 
most  spots,  and  on  what  patterns  the  spots  are 
arranged.  —  Does  introspection  show  any  differ- 
ences between  the  sensations  of  pressure,  heat  and 
cold,  over  and  above  their  qualitative  differences  ? 


Questions  and  Exercises  55 

(4)  Muscle.  Tendon  and  Joint. 

13.  Hold  your  arm  out  straight,  and  fold  it  slowly  in 

towards  your  chest.  Notice  the  pressures  in  the 
muscles  of  the  fore  and  upper  arms  and  in  the 
elbow  joint. 

14.  Clench  your  fist,  slowly.     Distinguish  the  pressures 

on  the  skin,  the  pressures  in  muscles  and  joints, 
and  the  strain  in  the  tendons. 

(5)  Taste. 

15.  Prepare  a  number  of 'tastes1  in  solution.    Stop  the 

nose  with  cotton  wool,  and  apply  the  solutions 
carefully  to  the  tip  of  the  tongue  with  a  camelV 
hair  brush.  You  will  get  none  but  the  four 
tastes  mentioned  above. 

16.  Note  the  contrast  of  tastes.     Brush  sweet  along 

one  side  of  the  tongue.  Then  brush  salt  or  acid 
along  the  other  side ;  the  sweet  becomes  notice- 
ably sweeter. 

(6)  Smell. 

17.  Note  the  antagonism  of  smells  (cf.  colours).    Make 

paper  funnels,  and  sniff  through  them  at  india- 
rubber  with  one  nostril,  and  at  beeswax  with  the 
other.  If  the  substances  are  taken  in  the  right 
proportions,  you  get  no  smell  at  all. 

(7)  What  sensations  do  you  get  in  the  act  of  yawning?    What 

in  that  of  swallowing?  What  unusual  sensations  do  you 
have,  from  the  face,  after  you  have  been  running  hard  ? 

(8)  Suppose  that  you  pared  off  the  top  of  the  colour-pyramid, 

at  any  given  height  above  the  base :  what  would  you  see 
upon  the  cut  surfaces  (planes  of  latitude)  ?  Suppose  that 
you  peeled  the  figure  like  an  onion ;  what  would  you  see 
upon  the  total  surface  thus  exposed?  Suppose  that  you 
halved  the  figure  longitudinally,  cutting  from  WRB  to  the 
axis,  and  thence  on  to  WGB  :  what  would  you  see  upon 
the  cut  surfaces?  —  Should  the  base  of  the  double  pyramid 
lie  in  its  present  plane,  or  should  it  be  tilted?  In  which 
direction  ?  Can  you  suggest  any  other  modifications  ? 

(9)  Work  out  the  anatomy  and  physiology  of  the  organ  of  gid- 

diness (§  1 8,  b)  in  greater  detail,     (/^l,  pp.  729  ff.) 
(10)  To  test  Weber's  law,  take  two  small  weights  which,  when 
laid  successively  on  the  palm  of  the  hand,  exert  clearly 
different  pressures.     Now  double  the  lighter  weight,  and 
find  by  repeated  trial  how  heavy  a  fourth  weight  mint  be, 


§6  Sensation 

if  it  is  to  differ  as  much  in  sensation  from  the  double 
weight  as  the  heavier  of  the  first  pair  differed  from  the 
lighter.  —  You  can  make  the  weights  of  coarse  shot,  tied 
in  little  chamois  leather  bags ;  and  you  can  take  a  single 
shot  as  unit  of  weight,  without  actually  weighing  the  bags. 

Or  proceed  in  this  way.  Take  two  glass  funnels,  of 
equal  weight ;  two  largish  bags  of  shot,  of  equal  weight ; 
and  a  number  of  very  small  bags,  also  of  equal  weight. 
One  funnel  is  weighted  only  with  a  large  bag ;  this  gives 
the  standard  weight,  a.  The  other  is  weighted  with  a 
large  bag,  and  with  one  or  more  of  the  small  bags,  as  the 
experiment  requires  ;  this  is  the  variable  weight,  b.  Find 
by  repeated  trials  what  weight  b  must  have  if  it  is  to  be 
just  noticeably  heavier  than  a  in  sensation.  Lift  the 
funnels  successively  in  each  experiment,  raising  them  to 
a  marked  height  above  the  table.  Keep  the  arm  very 
steady,  bending  only  at  the  elbow  joint ;  avoid  any  shift- 
ing of  the  weight  in  the  hand.  Estimate  the  weights  on 
the  basis  of  a  double  (up  and  down)  movement.  Having 
made  b  just  noticeably  heavier  than  a,  take  b  as  your 
standard,  and  add  to  a  till  it  is  just  noticeably  heavier 
than  b ;  then  reverse  the  procedure  again,  and  so  on. 

If  we  represent  the  first  standard  by  i,  the  series 
obtained  will  be  approximately:  I,  \\,  ff£,  if^,  etc. 
When  sensations  are  just  noticeably  different  in  intensity, 
their  stimuli  differ  by  the  same  relative  amount  in  each 
case.  For  lifted  weights  (strain  sensations)  this  constant 
relative  difference  is  about  one-thirtieth.  Hence  we  have 
the  series : 

i,  i  +  &  °f  i»  H  +  A  of  f i,  m  +  A  of  MS.  etc. 

References 

James,  Textbook,  pp.  9-77. 
Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  pp.  81-132. 
Titchener,  Outline,  §§  7,  8,  11-30. 
Wundt,  Lectures,  Lects.  II. -VII. 
Wundt,  Outlines,  §§  5,  6. 

See  also:  E.  C.  Sanford,  A  Course  in  Experimental  Psychology, 
1898. 


CHAPTER   IV 

AFFECTION  AND  FEELING 

§  24.  The  Two  Kinds  of  Affection.  —  We  not  only 
sense  stimuli  ;  we  also  feel  or  are  affected  by  them. 
We  say,  "  How  delightfully  cool  it  is  here  !  "  and 
"What  a  delicious  fragrance  this  flower  has!"  and 
"  You  must  have  had  a  very  unpleasant  conversa- 
tion !  "  The  coolness  and  fragrance  and  conversa- 
tion are  all  made  up  of  sensations  ;  but  the  delight 
and  pleasantness  and  disagreeableness  are  affective 
processes. 

Let  us  see,  now,  what  affection  is.     We  know  that  Life  is  a 

balance  of 

there  are   two  opposite   processes  always  going  on  opposing 
in  the  body  :    processes  of  decay,  and  processes  of  forces 
renewal.     We  all  tend  to  decay,  to  die  ;  but  we  eat 
and  drink  and  sleep,  and  so  renew  our  strength  for 
living.     Life,  then,  means  that  the  body  is  holding 
its   own    against   the   forces   that  would  destroy  it  ; 
living  means  a  balance  between  the  building-up  and 
the  pulling-down  processes. 

Think  of  the  living  body  as  a  lump  of  jelly,  stand-  and  the 
ing  on  its  base,  but  not  standing  very  firmly.     All  n 


over  the  surface  of  the  lump  are  little  dents  or  pits.  either  force 

at  a  given 

These  represent  the  sense-organs,  the  channels  by  moment  is 
which  the  things  and  processes  of  the  outside  world 
gain   access   to   consciousness.     Every  time   that   a 
stimulus  forces  its  way  into  one  of   the  dents,  the 

57 


n 
•H 


58  Affection  and  Feeling 

whole  lump  is  tilted,  —  tilted  towards  a  position  of 
greater  or  less  steadiness.  The  conscious  processes 
that  accompany  this  tilt  are  affections.  If  the  tilt  is 
for  the  good  of  the  lump,  the  affection  is  pleasant- 
ness ;  if  for  its  harm,  unpleasantness. 

If  the  organism   is   balanced   as  at  a  of  the  Figure,  a 

stimulus  coming  in 
direction  of  the 
arrow  will  tend  to 
overthrow  it,  *'.<?.,  will 
be  unpleasant.  If  the 
organism  is  balanced 
as  in  b,  the  stimulus  will  tend  to  restore  its  equilibrium,  i.e.y 
will  be  pleasant. 

Do  not  confuse  this  'equilibrium'  with  that  of  §  18.  There 
we  were  talking  of  the  actual  balance  of  the  body  in  space ;  of 
our  standing  upright  or  staggering  and  falling.  Here  we  mean 
by  '  equilibrium '  the  balance  of  growth  and  decay,  of  waste  and 
renewal,  that  the  living  body  shows  us. 

Do  not  think,  either,  that  every  stimulus  is  a  life-and-death 
matter.  Many  stimuli  that  are  sensed  are  not  felt  at  all;  the 
tilt  is  too  slight. 

And  lastly,  do  not  suppose  that  everything  which  is  pleasant 
to  you,  under  your  particular  circumstances,  is  good  for  you. 
Nature  strikes  averages ;  she  does  not  look  after  the  individual. 
Pleasant  things  are  good  on  the  average,  —  good  for  the  per- 
fectly healthy,  adult  animal,  living  under  natural  conditions. 
Man  is  a  domesticated  animal,  living  like  sheep  and  oxen  under 
artificial  conditions ;  and  there  are  many  things  pleasant  to 
particular  men  which  are  not  for  their  good,  do  not  conduce  to 
their  upbuilding.  Nevertheless,  the  rule  holds  as  a  rule  of 
averages.  On  the  whole,  what  is  pleasant  is  for  the  advantage 
of  the  organism. 

Definition  of  Affection,  then,  is  an  elementary  conscious  process 
which  may  be  set  up  by  the  stimulation  of  any  bodily 
organ.  And  while  we  find  some  50,000  different 
sensations,  we  find  only  two  different  affections. 


§  25.     Feeling  59 

§  25.  Feeling.  —  No  affection,  or  mixture  of  affec-  Definition  of 
tions,  ever  appears  in  consciousness  alone.  Affec- 
tion always  comes  with  the  stimulation  of  some 
organ,  and  consequently  always  comes  together  with 
the  sensation  from  some  organ.  When  we  have  in 
consciousness  a  complex  process  made  up  of  sensa- 
tion and  pleasantness  or  unpleasantness,  —  and  when 
the  affective  side  of  the  process,  its  pleasantness 
or  unpleasantness,  strikes  us  more  forcibly  than 
the  sense-side  of  it,  —  we  call  the  total  process  a 
feeling, 

It  is  clear,  if  we  work  through  the  list  of  sensa-  Some  sensa- 
tions, that  some  of   them  enter  into  feelings   much 


more  readily  than  others.      Thus  (i)  black,   white  more  readily 

than  others. 

and  grey  are  hardly  ever  very  pleasant  or  unpleas- 
ant. We  are  so  familiar  with  them  (in  printing  and 
writing,  in  our  clothes,  etc.)  that  they  have  ceased  to 
affect  us.  Only  when  a  light  is  so  dazzling  that  the 
sensation  of  pain  is  set  up  in  the  muscles  of  the  eye 
do  we  feel  it  to  be  unpleasant.  The  same  thing  is 
true,  though  in  slightly  less  degree,  of  colours.  A 
simple  colour  rarely  enters  into  a  feeling  ;  we  are  so 
constantly  surrounded  with  coloured  objects  (carpet, 
wall-paper,  pictures,  book-covers,  clothes,  houses, 
grass,  sky,  etc.)  that  we  have  grown  used  to  colour. 
(2)  Giddiness  is  never  anything  but  unpleasant.  But 
noise  and  tone,  like  brightness  and  colour,  we  have 
always  with  us  (sounds  in  the  house  or  street,  our 
own  and  our  friends'  voices)  ;  so  that  they  affect  us 
but  little.  (3)  Sensations  from  the  skin  differ  among 
themselves.  Pure  pressure-feelings  are  rare;  tem- 
perature-feelings (oppressive  heat,  bitter  cold)  are 


60  Affection  and  Feeling 

quite  common ;  while  pain,  like  giddiness,  is  natu- 
rally unpleasant.  (4)  Tastes  and  smells  affect  us 
so  much  that  we  are  apt  to  speak  of  them  simply 
as  'agreeable'  or  'disagreeable,'  without  troubling  to 
think  of  their  sensation-names.  (5)  Strain  may  be 
pleasant  or  unpleasant  or  neither.  Hunger  and 
thirst  are  always  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant ; 
nausea  is  always  unpleasant.  But  most  important  of 
all  for  the  arousal  of  feelings  are  the  stimulations 
of  internal  bodily  organs  that  call  forth  the  obscure 
sensations  mentioned  in  §  21  (3).  It  is  just  because 
these  sensations  are  swamped,  so  to  speak,  by 
pleasantness  or  unpleasantness  that  they  are  so  dif- 
ficult to  introspect  as  sensations. 

Remember  that  we  are  speaking  now  of  sensations,  and 
not  of  perceptions  or  ideas,  which  are  groups  of  sensations. 
We  get  some  of  our  keenest  pleasures  from  sights  and 
sounds,  —  from  beautiful  paintings  and  statues,  or  from 
music,  —  but  these  pleasures  come  from  mixtures  or  groups 
of  colours  and  tones,  not  from  simple  sensations. 

Oftentimes  the  pleasantness  of  a  perception  outweighs 
the  unpleasantness  of  a  sensation.  Thus  children  will  twirl 
round  and  round,  from  pleasure  in  rhythmical  movement 
(perception),  although  they  know  that  the  giddiness  (sen- 
sation) which  will  follow  the  twirling  cannot  be  anything 
but  unpleasant. 

rhe  law  of  Summing  up,  then,  we  may  say  that  the  sensations 
which  tell  us  most  about  the  world  outside  the  body 
(those  of  sight  and  hearing)  are  least  likely  to  enter 
into  feelings,  while  the  sensations  that  tell  us  least 
about  such  outside  matters  (those  from  the  internal 
bodily  organs)  hardly  ever  come  to  consciousness 
except  as  parts  of  feelings. 


§  25.     Feeling  61 

The  word  '  feeling '  is  used  in  ordinary  language  to  mean  Different 
several  different  processes.  It  will  be  well,  for  the  sake  of  JJ^JJJIJ 
clearness  in  our  thinking,  to  distinguish  these.  •  feeling.' 

(1)  Feeling  is  used  for  the  perception  of  touch  (§§  46,  51). 
We  say  that  a  thing  '  feels  hard,'  and  we  '  feel  in  our  pocket '  for 
something. 

(2)  It  is  used  for  certain  internal  sensations,  whether  they  are 
strongly  tinged  by  affection  or  not.     Thus  we  '  feel  hungry'  and 
'feel  thirsty,'  although  the  hunger  and  thirst  may  be  neither 
strongly  pleasant  nor  strongly  unpleasant. 

(3)  It  is  used  for  some  very  complicated  affective  processes, 
for  emotions  and  moods  (§  58).     Thus  we  'feel  angry'  or  'feel 
blue.'    Anger  is  an  emotion ;  '  the  blues '  is  a  mood. 

(4)  It  is  used,  as  by  us  here,  for  a  mixture  of  affection  and 
sensation  in  which  the  affection  is  the  stronger  of  the  two  pro- 
cesses.    Thus  it  is  correct  to  say  that  we  'feel  cramped,'  or 
'  suffocated,'  or  '  well,'  or  '  fresh,'  or  '  drowsy ' :   all  these  pro- 
cesses are  made  up  of  internal  sensations  and  affection,  and  the 
affection  dominates  the  whole  process.     It  may  or  may  not  be 
correct  to  say  that  we  '  feel '  hot  or  cold,  hungry  or  thirsty ;  it  ah1 
depends  on  whether  we  are  thinking  of  the  sensations  or  their 
accompanying  affections.     If  we  'feel   bitterly  cold,'  or  'jolly 
hungry,'  the  process  is  a  true  feeling. 

Let  us  introspect  a  true  feeling,  —  say,  the  feeling  of  The  feeling 
drowsiness,  —  and  convince  ourselves  that  it  is  made  up  of 
sensation  and  affection.  Drowsiness  begins,  on  the  sensation 
side,  with  a  sensation  of  pressure  on  the  upper  eyelids,  with 
a  tickling  in  the  throat  that  leads  to  yawning  and  so  brings 
a  complex  of  muscular  sensations,  and  with  a  sensation  of 
pressure  at  the  back  of  the  neck  (the  head  droops) .  The 
lids  grow  constantly  heavier ;  breathing  gets  slower  and 
deeper,  so  that  its  sensations  change ;  the  lower  jaw  be- 
comes heavy,  so  that  the  mouth  opens  and  the  chin  falls 
forward  on  the  breast  (pressure  sensations)  ;  the  neck  sen- 
sations become  stronger,  the  head  heavier ;  and  lastly  the 
limbs  grow  heavy,  and  arrange  themselves  by  their  own 
weight.  Sensations  of  temperature  come  from  the  surface 
of  the  skin,  thrills  of  warmth  running  their  course  at  different 


62 


Affection  and  Feeling 


Mental  pro- 
cesses have 
bodily  ex- 
pressions. 


The  four 
bodily  signs 
of  affection : 


parts  of  limbs  and  trunk.  Over  all  this  mass  of  sensation  is 
spread  an  affection ;  an  easy,  comfortable  pleasantness. 
And  the  affection  outweighs  the  sensation  ;  we  know  better 
that  we  '  feel  comfortable  '  than  that  sensations  are  coming 
in  from  this  or  that  organ.  —  The  total  process,  then,  has  all 
the  marks  of  a  true  feeling. 

§  26.  The  Bodily  Signs  of  Affection.  —  Every  mental 
process  has  some  way  of  expressing  itself  through 
the  body ;  or,  in  other  words,  there  is  always  some 
bodily  sign  or  indication  which  tells  us,  if  we  are 
good  observers,  that  a  certain  mental  process  is  in 
our  neighbour's  consciousness.  Sensations  and  ideas 
show  themselves  by  movements,  the  commonest  of 
which  is  the  movement  of  speech.  For  speaking,  on 
its  physiological  side,  is  a  series  of  movements ;  the 
movements  of  the  muscles  of  the  larynx  regulate  the 
passage  of  air  through  the  slit  formed  by  the  vocal 
cords.  Affective  processes  also  show  themselves  by 
movements,  and  more  especially  (as  we  shall  see  later, 
§  61)  by  movements  of  the  muscles  of  the  face:  we 
'  look '  pleased  or  angry,  grieved  or  frightened. 

But  affection,  as  we  saw,  corresponds  in  conscious- 
ness to  a  tilt  of  the  whole  body.  We  shall  therefore 
expect  to  find  that  the  whole  body  gives  evidence  of 
the  presence  of  affection  in  consciousness.  Not  only 
will  there  be  particular  movements,  a  particular  '  play 
of  feature '  or  what  not,  to  tell  us  that  affection  is 
there ;  we  must  be  able  to  read  off  from  the  whole 
body  whether  the  mind  is  pleasantly  or  unpleasantly 
disposed. 

Experiment  has  shown  that  this  is  actually  the 
case.  We  have  no  less  than  four  ways  of  knowing, 


§  26.    The  Bodily  Signs  of  Affection          63 

by  the  general  behaviour  of  the  body,  which  of  the 
two  affective  processes  is  tingeing  the  consciousness 
of  the  moment.  We  know  it  (i)  by  the  state  of  the 
pulse;  (2)  by  the  state  of  breathing;  (3)  by  the  size 
of  the  body ;  and  (4)  by  the  amount  of  muscular 
strength  that  can  be  exerted. 

(i)  When  we   are   pleased,  the  pulse  is  strong;   when  pulse, 
we  are  displeased,  weak.     (2)  The  same   thing   holds  of  breathing, 
breathing.     If  an  experience  is  pleasant,  we  breathe  more 
deeply ;  if  unpleasant,  less  deeply.     In  joy,  we  breathe  in 
great  breaths ;  in  sorrow,  our  breathing  is  short  and  weak. 

(3)  When  we  are  pleased,  the  blood  flows  freely  into  the-  volume, 
little  blood-vessels  that  lie  just  beneath  the  skin ;  when  we 

are  displeased,  it  is  withdrawn  to  the  internal  organs  of  the 
body.  Hence  we  are  really  larger,  we  '  expand,'  in  pleasure, 
and  '  shrink  into  ourselves '  during  an  unpleasant  experience. 

(4)  When  we  are  pleased  we  are  stronger  muscularly,  we  strength, 
can  put  out  more  strength,  than  when  we  are  displeased. 

We  '  feel  stronger '  and  are  stronger  than  usual  when  we  are 
heartily  and  justly  angry  (pleasant  anger).  Grief  bows  us 
down,  crushes  us,  leaves  us  physically  weaker  than  we  were. 

If  we  wish  to  measure  these  bodily  changes  accurately,  we 
must  use  complicated  scientific  instruments.  But  we  can  all 
assure  ourselves,  from  our  everyday  experience,  that  they  take 
place.  And  it  is  interesting  to  note,  further,  that  a  good  novel- 
ist refers  to  them,  when  he  is  describing  the  signs  of  feeling 
in  his  characters.  Turn,  e.g.,  to  David  Copperfield.  You  will 
find  the  following  sentence  in  ch.  xxviii. :  "As  the  step  ap- 
proached, I  knew  it,  and  felt  my  heart  beat  high."  Dickens  has 
noticed  that  the  heart-beat  is  stronger  than  usual  when  one  is 
greatly  pleased.  In  ch.  Hi.  we  have:  "He  looked  at  us  atten- 
tively, with  his  whole  face  breathing  short  and  quick  in  every 
feature."  The  sentence  is  meant  to  describe  a  man's  appearance 
when  he  is  under  the  influence  of  rage  and  fear :  there  is  a  simi- 
lar passage  in  ch.  xiv.  Again:  in  ch.  xxxvi.  it  is  said  that 
Mr.  Micawber  "  walked  so  erect  on  the  strength  of  this  virtuous 
action,  that  his  chest  looked  half  as  broad  again  when  he  lighted 


64 


Affection  and  Feeling 


The  differ- 
ences be- 
tween sensa- 
tion and 
affection : 


(i)  only  one 
affection  can 
be  present  at 
any  given 
time ; 


us  downstairs."  If  Mr.  Micawber's  arm  or  leg  had  been  meas- 
ured, his  virtuous  pleasure  would  have  been  found  to  carry  with 
it  an  actual  expansion  of  that  part  of  him  also.  Lastly,  when 
Miss  Mowcher  captures  the  respectable  Littimer  in  ch.  Ixi., 
"she'd  have  took  him  single-handed  if  he  had  been  Samson," — 
so  strong  was  she  in  her  righteous  indignation.  And  there  is  a 
similar  remark  in  ch.  vii. 

It  is,  of  course,  only  through  introspection  that  we  are 
able  to  bring  these  bodily  changes  into  connection  with  the 
mental  processes  of  affection.  We  first  observe  the  connec- 
tion in  our  own  case,  and  then  have  the  right  to  argue  from 
the  same  bodily  sign  to  the  same  mental  process  in  the  case 
of  others.  It  will,  perhaps,  make  the  task  of  introspection 
'  easier  if  we  note  now  some  of  the  chief  differences  between 
sensation  and  affection,  as  elements  of  consciousness. 

§  27.  Affection  and  Sensation.  —  The  best  way  to 
realise  the  great  difference  between  sense-experience 
and  feel-experience  is  just  to  sense  and  to  feel.  But 
it  will  help  us  to  sense  and  feel  observantly  if  we  put 
down  in  words  some  of  the  differences  between  the 
two  kinds  of  experience.  We  cannot  put  them  all 
down  here ;  we  have  not  travelled  far  enough  into 
psychology.  There  are  three  of  them,  however,  that 
we  are  now  in  a  position  to  understand. 

(i)  A  sensation  is  set  up  by  the  stimulation  of  a 
particular  organ  ;  an  affection  by  the  tilt  given  to 
the  whole  body  through  that  stimulation.  Suppose 
now  that  (as  always  happens  in  actual  experience) 
two  or  three  sense-organs  are  stimulated  together ; 
there  will  be  a  group  of  sensations  in  consciousness 
at  the  same  time.  Every  stimulus  is  represented  by 
its  own  special  sensation ;  the  sensations  run  peace- 
ably side  by  side.  But  the  body  as  a  whole  cannot 
be  tilted  both  up  and  down  at  the  same  time ;  either 


§  27.  Affection  and  Sensation  65 

the  tilt-up  will  be  the  stronger,  or  the  tilt-down,  or 
the  two  will  counterbalance  each  other  and  there  will 
be  no  tilt.  This  means  that  the  two  opposite  affec- 
tions cannot  ever  be  in  consciousness  together.  The 
combination  of  stimuli  which  has  called  out  the  group 
of  sensations  will  be  either  pleasant  as  a  whole,  or 
unpleasant  as  a  whole,  or  neither :  it  cannot  possibly 
be  both.  —  In  other  words  :  a  consciousness  may  be 
made  up  of  all  sorts  of  sensations,  sights  and  sounds 
and  tastes  and  organic  sensations ;  but  the  affection 
of  that  consciousness  is  a  single  affection,  a  pleasant- 
ness or  unpleasantness  which  spreads  over  the  total 
stream  of  sense-processes,  and  makes  it  as  a  whole 
pleasant  or  unpleasant. 

There  is  a  reference  to  this  law  in  the  Pickwick  Papers.  "  A 
good,  contented,  well-breakfasted  juryman,"  says  Mr.  Perker 
(ch.  xxxiv.),  "is  a  capital  thing  to  get  hold  of.  Discontented 
or  hungry  jurymen  always  find  for  the  plaintiff."  That  is  to 
say :  if  your  mood  is  pleasurable,  if  you  are  comfortable  and 
experiencing  the  pleasant  feelings  of  satiety  and  easy  digestion, 
you  tend  to  see  everything  in  a  favourable  light;  if  your  mood 
is  unpleasurable,  and  you  are  uncomfortable  and  hungry,  you  are 
likely  to  take  the  worst  possible  view  of  your  fellow-creatures' 
actions.  The  affection  of  the  moment  is  spread  over  the  whole 
of  consciousness. 

Cf.  Shakespeare,  Sonnets,  viii.,  xcviii.  —  For  a  discussion  of 
'  mixed  feelings,1  see  §  65. 

(2)  We  are  inclined,  until  we  know  better,  to  think  (a)  affection 
of  sensations  as  something  physical.  Many  of  the 
readers  of  the  previous  Chapters  were,  probably, 
surprised  to  find  that  colours  and  temperatures  were 
dealt  with  by  psychology ;  they  had  thought  that  it 
was  the  sky  that  is  blue,  the  air  or  -water  that  is  hot 
or  cold.  Not  till  we  have  fully  grasped  the  differ- 


66  Affection  and  Feeling 

ence  between  the  physics  of  light  (ether- waves),  the 
physiology  of  light  (stimulations  and  excitations  in  eye 
and  cortex),  and  the  psychology  of  light  (sensations 
of  brightness  and  colour),  can  we  understand  that 
'  blue  '  is  a  mental  process  rather  than  a  physical  fact. 
But  we  never  think  of  affections  in  this  way. 
When  we  talk  of  '  a  piece  of  unpleasant  news,'  we 
do  not  think  of  the  unpleasantness  as  being  where 
the  news  is,  in  the  letter  or  newspaper ;  we  mean 
1  news  that  makes  us  uncomfortable,'  '  a  piece  of 
unpleasant-to-us  news.'  When  we  tell  a  friend  that 
a  certain  book  is  '  interesting,'  we  mean  that  it 
pleased  us  and  will  please  him ;  the  interest  is  not 
between  the  covers  of  the  book,  but  is  aroused  in  our 
minds  by  the  book.  All  our  feelings  are,  so  to  say, 
personal  matters,  belonging  simply  and  solely  to  our- 
selves ;  we  never  have  any  inclination  to  look  at  them 
as  physical  facts,  outside  of  us. 

This  difference  between  sensation  and  affection  is  some- 
times expressed  by  the  terms  '  objective '  and  '  subjective.' 
Both  are  mental  processes ;  but  sensation  is  an  objective, 
affection  a  subjective  mental  process.  Sensations  stand  for 
outside  things  and  processes ;  my  sensation  of  blue  means 
the  sky,  to  me  ;  a  sensation  of  pressure  means  my  book  or 
my  cup  and  saucer.  Affections  have  no  such  reference  to 
external  objects ;  they  are  purely  passive  and  (in  this  sense) 
unmeaning  processes.  Hence  they  are  more  personal  to 
me  than  sensations  are. — We  can,  of  course,  form  an  idea 
of  affection  (§5):  otherwise  the  preceding  paragraphs  could 
not  have  been  written.  And  the  idea  of  affection  has  mean- 
ing ;  it  means  a  generally  good  or  a  generally  bad  state  of 
my  bodily  functions.  But  this  is  a  different  matter. 

In  popular  thinking,  the  body  is  conceived  of  as  subjec- 


§  27.    Affection  and  Sensation  67 

live,  and  only  the  world  outside  the  body  as  objective  (ff. 
§  93).  The  sensation  of  pain,  e.g.,  is  often  identified  with 
the  affection  of  unpleasantness.  If  we  wish  to  see  pain  and 
the  other  sensations  from  the  internal  bodily  organs  in  their 
true  psychological  character  as  sensations,  we  must  look  at 
the  portion  of  the  body  in  which  they  arise  as  if  it  were 
something  apart  from  us,  like  the  sky  or  a  chair  or  a  sound. 
In  this  way  we  are  able  to  introspect  aright ;  to  split  up  the 
total  feeling,  and  to  rid  the  organic  sensations  of  the  per- 
sonal or  subjective  flavour  of  the  affective  processes. 

(3)  If  a  stimulus  is  repeated  over  and  over  again,   (3)  affection 

'    is  blunted 

the  sensation  aroused  becomes  more  and  more  by  repetition 
organic  to  our  minds,  until  it  grows  to  be  an  indis- 
pensable constituent  of  certain  consciousnesses;  but 
the  affection  set  up  grows  weaker  and  weaker,  until 
at  last  it  disappears  altogether.  The  usefulness  of 
this  difference  is  clear.  We  have  to  live  in  certain 
surroundings,  to  work  out  our  lives  under  certain  ex- 
ternal conditions.  We  must,  then,  become  wholly 
familiar  with  these  surroundings ;  we  must '  know  our 
way  about '  them,  without  having  to  waste  time  by 
re-learning  them  from  day  to  day.  In  other  words, 
the  sensations  which  we  get  from  them  must  become 
ingrained  in  our  conscious  make-up.  But  it  would 
never  do  for  us  to  be  perpetually  affected  by  our  sur- 
roundings ;  we  should  be  worn  out  with  trifles,  and 
unfit  for  serious  work.  It  is  therefore  a  very  useful 
property  of  the  nervous  system  that  it  can  adapt  or 
adjust  itself,  within  certain  limits,  to  its  surround- 
ings ;  that  it  can  become  '  set,'  as  it  were,  at  a  cer- 
tain slight  tilt,  so  as  to  meet  the  tilt  in  the  other 
direction  given  it  by  familiar  stimuli. 

Think  how  vexed  you   are  when  you   lose   some  little 
thing ;  how  sorry  you  are  when  you  break  something ;  how 


68  Affection  and  Feeling 

pleased  you  are  when  something  is  given  you.  But  think, 
too,  how  seriously  your  life  would  be  interfered  with  if  you 
felt  the  same  feeling  over  again  every  time  that  you  thought 
of  the  loss,  every  time  that  you  thought  of  the  broken  cup, 
every  time  that  you  saw  the  gift  on  your  table.  Life  would 
be  a  constant  seesaw  of  feeling ;  one  would  never  find  op- 
portunity to  '  settle  down  '  to  anything,  and  there  would  be 
no  spur  to  press  on  towards  new  enjoyments. 

Think,  too,  how  much  time  would  be  wasted  if  you 
had  to  find  your  way  about  your  home  and  native  town 
just  as  if  they  were  always  a  strange  house  and  a  new 
town.  Familiarity  has  organised  the  ideas  of  home  and 
town  into  the  structure  of  your  mind ;  you  take  them  for 
granted. 

Here,  then,  is  a  great  difference,  and  a  very  useful  differ- 
ence, between  sensation  and  affection.  It  you  find  that  one 
part  of  a  concrete  process  becomes  more  serviceable,  is  (so 
to  say)  more  easily  handled,  while  another  part  fades  out, 
with  repetition,  you  may  be  sure  that  the  first  part  is  the 
sense-side  and  the  second  the  feel-side  of  the  process.  —  Cf. 
Shakespeare,  Sonnets,  Hi.,  Ivi. 

We  cannot  enter  here  into  the  question  of  the  bodily  con- 
ditions of  affection  ;  we  must  wait  till  we  have  discussed  the 
state  of  attention,  to  which  affection  is  very  closely  related. 
Before  we  go  on  to  deal  with  attention,  however,  we  must 
notice  that  some  psychologists  give  a  very  different  account 
of  affection  from  that  given  above.  It  is  only  fair  that  we 
should  see  what  their  account  is  ;  and  it  will  be  well  to  try 
to  find  out  why  they  differ  from  us. 

§28.  Are  there  More  than  Two  Kinds  of  Affection? 
— We  have  recognised  two,  and  only  two,  kinds  or 
qualities  of  affection :  pleasantness  and  unpleasant- 
ness. This  means  (to  quote  Professor  Wundt)  that 
"the  unpleasurableness  of  a  toothache,  of  an  intel- 
lectual failure,  and  of  a  tragical  experience  is  iden- 
tical." In  so  far  as  they  are  unpleasant  experiences, 


§  28.    More  than  Two  Kinds  of  Affection  ?    69 

/ 
the  toothache-,  failure-  and  tragedy-consciousnesses 

are  the  same. 

Professor  Wundt  looks  upon  this  as  "  an  entirely 
untenable  assertion."  "The  variety  of  simple  affec- 
tive qualities,"  he  says,  "  is  exceedingly  great,  much 
greater  than  that  of  sensations."  That  is,  mind  is 
made  up  not  of  some  50,000  sensations  and  two  affec- 
tions, —  but  of  some  50,000  sensations  and  a  great 
many  more  than  50,000  affections.  Here  is  a  radical 
difference  of  opinion ! 

Professor  Wundt  confesses  that  we  cannot  name  Wundfssix 
all  these  affections.     But  he  thinks  that  we  can  dis-  affective  pro- 
tinguish   six   great   groups   of   elementary    affective  cesses- 
processes.     These  are  (i)  pleasantness  and  unpleas- 
antness, (2)  strain  and  relaxation,  and  (3)  excitement 
and  depression.     Just  as  there  are  a  large  number  of 
'smells'  and  'colours'  and  'sounds,'  so  there  are  a 
large  number  of   different  affections  under  each  of 
these  six  heads. 

Which  is  the  right  view  ?  Nobody  can  say ;  the 
matter  must  be  decided  by  long-continued  and  care- 
ful introspection.  But,  supposing  our  own  view  to 
be  right,  can  we  say  how  the  other  view  could  have 
arisen  ?  Yes  :  that  question  can  be  answered.  The 
other  view  might  easily  arise  from  the  confusion  of 
feeling  and  affection,  i.e.,  of  specific  and  elementary 
processes. 

The   reader   knows  what  is  meant  in  psychology  by  an  'Elementary' 

elementary  process  :  it  is  a  process  which  cannot  be  split  up   and'sPeclfic 

•     processes, 
into  simpler  processes  by  introspection.     Now  the  specific 

character  of  a  process  is  different  from  elementariness,  but 
may  readily  be  confused  with  elementariness.     It  is  what 


/o  Affection  and  Feeling 

makes  one  concrete  process  different  from  another  concrete 
process  that  is  composed  of  the  same  elements.  Thus  all 
the  emotions  (fear,  hate,  joy,  hope)  are  made  up  of  the 
same  material  :  perceptions  and  ideas,  organic  sensations, 
and  affection.  But  no  one  would  ever  take  a  hate  for  a  fear, 
or  a  hope  for  a  joy ;  these  emotions  are  specifically  different. 
Again :  all  ideas  are  made  up  of  sensations ;  but  the  idea  of 
a  table  and  the  idea  of  a  desk  could  not  be  mistaken  for  each 
other.  And  again  :  all  feelings  are  made  up  (on  our  view) 
of  sensations  and  affection ;  but  the  feeling  of  drowsiness  is 
specifically  different  from  the  feeling  of  suffocation. 

Suppose,  however,  that  we  were  to  look  upon  the  feelings 
as  elementary  processes,  —  to  confuse  the  specific  character 
of  a  concrete  process  with  the  elementariness  of  affection. 
Then  we  should  get  Professor  Wundt's  view :  the  view  that 
there  are  more  affections  than  there  are  sensations.  For 
every  sensation,  at  every  possible  degree  of  intensity,  can 
(on  our  view)  enter  into  a  feeling ;  though  some  do  this 
more  readily  than  others.  Hence  if  every  feeling  is  taken 
to  be  an  elementary  affective  process,  there  must  be  more 
affections  than  sensation  qualities. 

This  is  the  confusion  which  Professor  Wundt  seems  to 
have  fallen  into.  The  terms  '  strain '  and  '  relaxation  '  dis- 
tinctly suggest  sensations  ;  the  sensations  of  tendinous  strain, 
and  the  pressure  sensations  from  skin  and  muscle  (sensa- 
tions of  'heaviness')  that  appear  in  the  feelings  of  drowsi- 
ness, tiredness,  etc.  And  it  is  not  surprising  that  one  should 
fall  into  it,  seeing  how  closely  many  sensations  (organic  sen- 
sations, tastes,  smells)  blend  with  affection,  and  how  difficult 
it  is  to  get  at  the  really  elementary  factors  even  by  the  most 
patient  introspection.  But  it  is  a  good  rule  not  to  accept 
a  process  as  elementary  which  holds  out  any  prospect  what- 
soever of  being  compound.  Hence  while  we  admit  that  the 
feelings  are  specifically  different  (as  different  as  the  '  wish ' 
for  an  apple  and  the  '  wish  '  for  a  relief  from  pain),  we  cannot 
regard  them  as  elementary.  Pleasantness  and  unpleasantness 
seem  to  be  the  sole  affective  processes. 


Questions  and  Exercises  Ji 

Questions  and  Exercises 

(1)  Cut  small  squares  of  coloured  paper:   say,  7  standard 
colours,  7  shades  of  these  (darker  colours),  and  7  tints  (lighter 
colours) .     Add  to  the  2 1  colours  7  brightnesses :  black,  white 
and  5  intermediate  greys.     Sort  the  squares  into  pairs ;  pairing 
every  colour  and  brightness  with  every  other  colour  and  bright- 
ness.    Show  these  pairs,  in  random  order,  to  the  observer,  and 
let  him  say  which  is  the  more  pleasant  of  the  two  impressions. 
At  the  end  of  the  experiment,  make  out  a  full  list  of  the  28  quali- 
ties, arranging  them  in  the  order  of  greater  to  less  pleasantness. 

Notice  (a)  that  the  results  got  from  different  observers  are 
very  different.  This  shows  how  little  accustomed  we  are  to  find 
simple  colours  and  brightnesses  pleasant  or  unpleasant. 

(K)  The  pleasantness  may  arise  in  two  ways.  It  may  come 
directly,  at  sight  of  the  square,  from  the  stimulus  itself;  or  it 
may  come  indirectly,  by  '  association,'  —  the  colour  '  suggesting ' 
something  of  that  colour  (a  blue  gown,  a  red  house,  a  yellow 
necktie,  etc.)  which  has  played  a  part,  pleasant  or  unpleasant,  in 
the  observer's  experience. 

What  you  are  trying  to  find  here  is  the  direct  value  of  the 
different  stimuli  in  calling  up  an  affective  process.  You  must 
therefore  rule  out  association,  as  far  as  you  can.  As  the  ob- 
server gets  practised  in  the  experiments,  the  associations  will 
become  fewer  and  fewer. 

(2)  Seat  the  observer  before  a  table.     Drive  a  nail  partly  into 
the  wood,  at  his  right  hand.    Measure  off  25  cm.  along  the  table's 
edge,  from  this  nail  towards  the  observer's  right.     Lay  a  book  at 
the  25  cm.  mark.    Now  (a)  let  the  observer  move  his  finger  slowly 
along  the  table,  from  the  nail  to  the  book.     Then  (b)  remove 
the  book,  and  let  him  try  to  make  the  same  movement,  stopping 
when  he  thinks  he  has  reached  the  point  at  which  the  book  lay. 
Do  this  a  number  of  times,  and  take  the  average  of  the  second 
movements. 

Repeat  the  series,  with  this  difference :  before  the  observer 
makes  the  second  movement  in  each  experiment  (the  movement 
when  the  book  is  removed)  let  him  smell  a  pleasant  or  unpleas- 
ant odour.  Notice  how  his  average  movement  is  lengthened  or 
shortened  under  the  influence  of  pleasantness  and  unpleasantness. 

(3)  If  you  possess  a  hand-dynamometer  (Fig.  9),  take  with  it 
(a)  the  strongest  squeeze  that  the  subject  can  make  under  ordi- 


72  Affection  and  Feeling 

nary  circumstances  ;  (V)  the  strongest  that  he  can  make  while  tast- 
ing a  very  bitter  substance ;  and  (c)  the  strongest  that  he  can 

make  while  tasting  a  pleasantly 
sweet  substance. 

(4)  Analyse   by  introspec- 
tion the  feelings  of  smart  (a 
'smarting  pain'),  of  health  ('I 
feel  first-rate'),  of  hunger  and 
of  oppressive  heat. 

(5)  Write  out  a  list  of  all 

the  '  feelings '  you  can  think  of,  —  that  is,  of  all  the  phrases  be- 
ginning with  "  I  feel "  or  "  I  have  a  feeling  of.  "    Find  by  intro- 
spection how  many  of  them  really  contain  the  element  of  affection, 
and  how  many  are  merely  sensations  or  perceptions. 

(6)  Give  in  your  own  words  the  distinction  between  elemen- 
tariness  and  specific  difference.     Try  to  find  instances  of  it  in 
some  other  science,  —  e.g.,  in  chemistry. 

(7)  Give  instances,  from  your  personal  experience  or  from 
novels,  of  the  three  differences  between  affection  and  sensation 
mentioned  in  §  27. 

(8)  We  may  receive  much  pleasure  from  the  sight  of  an  ex- 
panse of  blue  water,  of  the  starry  sky,  etc.,  or  from  the  sound  of  a 
friend's  voice.     Can  you  reconcile  this  fact  with  the  statements 
of  §25? 

(9)  All  the  bodily  changes  mentioned  in  §  26  reduce  to  a 
single  type  when  strictly  analysed.     What  is  the  type? 


References 

Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  pp.  64-66;  vol.  II.,  pp.  1-56. 
Titchener,  Outline,  §§  31-34,  56. 
Wundt,  Lectures,  Lect.  XIV. 
Wundt,  Outlines,  §  7. 


CHAPTER   V 

ATTENTION 

§  29.  The  Problem  of  Attention.  —  We  have  defined 
mind  as  the  sum  of  all  those  mental  processes  that 
make  up  the  experience  of  a  single  lifetime.  And 
we  have  seen  that  mental  processes,  when  introspec- 
tively  scrutinised  and  dissected,  can  be  reduced  to  two 
kinds  of  quite  simple  processes  or  mental  elements, 
sensation  and  affection.  Every  consciousness  can  be 
split  up  into  certain  groups  of  sensations  and  a  cer- 
tain affection. 

If,  now,  these  processes  always  remained  unchanged,  states  of  con- 
if  the  stream  flowed  always  at  the  same  level,  the 
task  of  the  psychologist  would  be  easy.  He  would 
take  the  consciousness  which  he  wished  to  examine, 
and  pull  it  to  pieces  by  introspection  ;  then  he  would 
state  the  laws  which  had  led  to  the  grouping  of  the 
elementary  processes  into  that  consciousness ;  and 
then  he  would  describe  the  bodily  processes  corre- 
sponding to  the  mental  processes  which  he  had  found. 
But  (as  we  saw  in  §  8)  the  processes  do  not  remain 
unchanged.  The  stream  of  consciousness  is  sometimes 
a  mere  trickle,  sometimes  a  placid  river,  sometimes  a 
torrent :  or,  in  technical  language,  there  are  many  dif- 
ferent states  of  consciousness.  The  mental  processes 
may  remain  the  same  processes,  as  we  pass  from  one 
state  of  consciousness  to  another ;  but  their  state  — 
their  relative  prominence  or  importance  —  is  changed. 

73 


74 


Attention 


attention 
and  inatten- 
tion. 


The  two 

sides  of 
attention. 


The  states  of  consciousness  that  are  most  familiar 
to  us  in  the  waking  life  are  those  of  attention  and 
inattention.  The  value  of  attention  need  hardly  be 
pointed  out ;  every  teacher  and  every  learner  admits 
it.  The  reader  may,  however,  be  reminded  that  the 
rule  "  Be  attentive  "  occurs  in  our  list  of  the  general 
rules  of  experimental  introspection  (§  15).  It  will  be 
well,  then,  now  that  we  have  discussed  the  element- 
ary mental  processes,  to  look  at  attention,  and  see 
how  these  processes  behave  in  the  attentive  and  inat- 
tentive states,  before  we  pass  on  to  treat  of  the  laws 
which  govern  their  union  in  perceptions  and  ideas 
and  emotions. 

Attention,  like  the  tree  in  Mark  Twain's  story,  has 
two  sides,  an  inside  and  an  outside.  Looked  at  from 
the  inside,  attention  consists  of  a  certain  well-marked 
phase  or  aspect  of  the  stream  of  consciousness :  our 
mental  processes  when  we  are  attentive  are  in  a 
different  state  from  our  mental  processes  when  we 
are  not  attending.  Looked  at  from  the  outside, 
attention  consists  of  a  certain  attitude  of  the  body, 
and  especially  of  the  head.  The  problem  that  atten- 
tion sets  us  is,  therefore,  twofold :  we  must  describe 
and  explain  the  state  of  consciousness,  and  we  must 
describe  and  explain  the  bodily  attitude. 

We  shall  see  later  (§  34)  that  even  this  outside  is  in  a 
sense  an  inside ;  that  it  has  a  distinct  psychological  value. 
The  bodily  attitude  is  in  many  cases  accompanied  by  inten- 
sive and  characteristic  sensations. 

§  30.  Attention  as  a  State  of  Consciousness.  —  We 
have  here  to  ask  what  attention  is,  as  a  psycho- 
logical fact,  —  how  the  state  of  attention  differs, 


§  30.    Attention  as  a  State  of  Consciousness     75 

when   introspectively   examined,    from   the   state   of 
inattention. 

When  we   are   inattentive,  —  when  we   are   in   a  Attention  to 

.       .  ,  ,  ,  r    and  attention 

revene,  letting  our  thoughts  wander,  —  the  stream  of  from^ 
conscious  processes  is  flowing,  so  to  speak,  at  the 
same  level.  Every  idea  that  occurs  to  us  is  as  im- 
portant as,  but  not  more  important  than,  the  ideas 
already  present.  There  is  no  difference  in  the  height 
of  the  waves,  as  the  stream  of  consciousness  flows  on. 
When  we  are  attentive,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
stream  flows  at  two  distinct  levels.  The  one  is  the 
level  of  the  ideas  attended  to;  the  other  that  of 
the  ideas  attended  from.  For  we  cannot  attend  at 
the  same  moment  to  all  the  ideas  that  make  up  a 
consciousness  ;  the  '  grasp  '  of  attention  is  limited,  — 
so  that  some  ideas  must  suffer  for  the  benefit  of  the 
rest.  The  ideas  attended  to  are  assisted  in  their 
course :  their  waves  run  at  a  great  height  above  the 
average  level  of  the  stream.  The  other  ideas  in  con- 
sciousness, those  attended  from,  are  checked :  their 
waves  run  sluggishly  below  the  average  level. 

In  Fig.   10,  a  represents  an  inat-  a 

tentive,  and  b  an  attentive  conscious- 
ness. The  dark  line  is  the  bed  of 
the  stream,  and  the  current  is  sup- 
posed to  be  flowing  towards  you,  out 
of  the  paper.  In  a  there  are  five 
ideas  present,  all  proceeding  at  equal 
levels.  In  b  the  third  idea  is  being 
attended  to ;  its  wave  is  much  height- 
ened, while  the  waves  of  i,  2,  4  and  5,  ' 
the  ideas  attended  from,  are  depressed. 

The  heightening  of  the  wave  which  represents  the  The  charac- 

x  —,.      .  ,          ter  of  ideas 

idea  attended  to  means  three  things.     ( i )  This  idea  attended  to. 


76  Attention 

becomes  clearer  in  consciousness  than  the  other  ideas 
of  the  time ;  it  stands  out  definitely  and  distinctly, 
while  the  ideas  attended  from  are  blurred  and  ob- 
scure. (2)  It  lasts  longer  than  the  other  ideas.  They 
slip  away,  but  it  is  'held'  or  arrested.  (3)  It  is  more 
valuable  than  the  others.  For  it  is  more  '  suggestive  ' 
than  they  are,  —  it  brings  to  mind  a  number  of  other 
ideas;  and  it  is  also  more  likely  to  be  remembered 
than  they  are,  so  that  it  will  be  at  our  disposal  on 
future  occasions  when  they  have  altogether  disap- 
peared from  memory. 

You  can  easily  verify  these  three  points  by  intro- 
spection. 

Attention  §  31.   The  Three  Forms  of  AJtention.  —  If  we  look  at 

attention  in  the  adult  mind,  we  find  that  it  appears  in 
three  different  stages  or  strata;  and  each  of  these 
represents  a  stage  in  the  development  of  mind  at 
large,  in  mental  evolution.  These  stages  have  been 
named  passive  attention,  active  attention  and  second- 
ary passive  attention.  We  must  look  at  them  in  order. 

passive,  (i)  Passive  Attention.  —  There  are  some  things  that 

we  must  attend  to,  whether  we  will  or  no  ;  things  that 
irresistibly  attract  us  to  them,  whatever  our  occupa- 
tion at  the  time  may  be.  Such  are  loud  sounds  and 
brilliant  lights  ;  things  that  move  amidst  unmoved  sur- 
roundings ;  things  that  for  some  reason  contrast  with 
their  surroundings.  When  an  object  of  this  kind  is 
presented  to  us,  we  necessarily  attend  to  it ;  its  idea 
is  borne  up  in  consciousness  on  the  crest  of  the  atten- 
tion wave,  and  we  are  deaf  and  blind  to  other  stimuli. 

active,  (2)  Active  Attention.  —  Sometimes,    on    the   other 

hand,  we  seem   to  be  holding   our   mind    upon  an 


§  31.    The  Three  Forms  of  Attention          77 

object  by  main  force,  to  be  making  ourselves  attend. 
The  ideas  attended  to  in  these  cases  are  not  such  as 
would  'naturally'  become  the  prominent  ideas  in  con- 
sciousness :  indeed,  they  may  be  ideas  which  would 
naturally  escape  notice.  Thus  we  may  listen  in- 
tently to  a  very  faint  sound,  a  sound  that  under 
ordinary  circumstances  would  have  had  no  power 
whatsoever  to  attract  the  attention ;  or  we  may  note 
the  minute  differences  between  two  shells  or  two 
plants,  finding  distinctions  where  the  ordinary  unin- 
terested observer  would  find  nothing  but  similarity. 
This  active  attention  always  involves  effort. 

(3)  Secondary  Passive  A  ttention.  —  Active  attention,  or  secondary 

.    ,  .  ry,,  ,-   passive  attcn- 

however,  may  pass  over  into  passive.  The  man  of  £on 
science  who  is  comparing  the  shells  or  plants  may 
become  so  absorbed  in  his  work  that  he  forgets  his 
dinner  or  misses  an  appointment;  his  mind  is  held 
as  firmly  by  his  work  as  it  could  be  by  a  loud  sound 
or  a  movement.  In  such  a  case,  an  object  which 
has  no  right  of  its  own  to  engross  consciousness  has 
gained  this  right  in  course  of  time  and  practice.  At 
first  attended  to  actively,  with  an  effort,  and  barely 
able  to  hold  its  own  against  distracting  ideas,  it  now 
absorbs  the  full  measure  of  attention ;  the  student 
is  buried  or  sunk  in  his  task. 

The  attention  of  young  children  and  of  the  lower  animals 
is  almost  exclusively  of  the  passive  sort.  Older  children 
and  the  higher  animals  are  capable  of  active  attention.  Sec- 
ondary passive  attention  is  peculiar  to  man  and  to  the  ani- 
mals trained  by  man  (dogs,  performing  animals).  Man 
alone  is  able  to  make  full  use  of  it.  We  must  now  ask 
what  that  use  is,  and  what  is  the  significance  of  the  three 
stages  of  attention  in  our  mental  life. 


Attention 


Individuals 
differ 


in  bodily 
tendency 


or  mental 
constitution. 


How  we 
know  this. 


§  32.    Bodily  Tendency  and   Mental   Constitution.  — 

Every  child  is  born  with  certain  aptitudes.  Its  mind 
will  not  be  an  all-round  mind,  but  a  mind  better  suited 
to  some  one  career,  some  particular  employment,  than 
to  others.  The  reason  is  that  every  child  is  the  out- 
come of  different  conditions.  The  children  of  differ- 
ent families  come  of  different  stocks,  so  that  their 
inherited  tendencies  or  leanings  are  different ;  and 
even  brothers  and  sisters  have  different  natural  en- 
dowments, according  as  they  '  take  after '  this  or  that 
parent  or  grandparent,  and  are  brought  up  under 
different  circumstances. 

Biologically  regarded,  these  differences  are  differ- 
ences of  tendency.  The  nervous  system  of  each  one 
of  us  is  the  product  of  a  long  course  of  development, 
during  which  all  sorts  of  influences  have  been  at 
work  to  shape  and  mould  it.  It  is  set  for  acting  in 
a  certain  way,  and  cannot  act  satisfactorily  in  other 
ways.  Psychologically  regarded,  the  differences  are 
differences  of  mental  constitution.  Each  man's  mind 
is  differently  constituted  from  his  neighbour's,  be- 
cause its  processes  run  their  course  within  the  chan- 
nels laid  down  by  a  particular  nervous  system.  With 
certain  nervous  tendencies  we  have  a  '  mathematical 
mind ' ;  with  certain  others,  an  '  emotional  mind ' ; 
with  certain  others,  a  '  plodding  mind  ' ;  etc. 

The  fact  that  minds  differ  in  general  trend  or  character 
is  brought  home  to  us  in  three  ways,  (i)  If  we  compare 
the  results  gained  by  introspection  of  different  minds,  we 
find  curious  individual  differences.  One  man  remembers 
an  event  by  seeing  it  over  again ;  another  by  hearing  it  over 
again.  That  is,  the  one  is  eye-minded,  the  other  ear- 


§  32-    Bodily  Tendency  and  Mental  Constitution     79 

minded.  It  is  the  same  event ;  but  it  has  appealed  to  the 
two  minds  differently,  because  of  the  differences  of  nervous 
tendency.  The  minds  are  differently  constituted.  (2)  We 
are  sorted  out  into  groups  as  children ;  we  are  told  that  we 
are  '  bright '  or  '  dull,'  '  industrious '  or  '  impatient,'  etc.  So 
it  is  natural  to  us  to  think  of  minds  as  being  of  different 
types  or  kinds.  (3)  We  see  that  different  people  act  dif- 
ferently under  the  same  circumstances.  One  man  is  con- 
fused and  hesitant,  another  stunned  and  helpless,  another 
ready  and  capable,  while  the  external  conditions  remain 
precisely  the  same. 

We  have  said  that  nervous  tendency  and  the  mental  constitu-  The  problem 
tion  that  corresponds  to  it  are  the  result  of  influences  which  have  of  education- 
been  at  work  throughout  a  long  course  of  development,  —  of  the 
influences  that  affected  parents  and  grandparents  and  more  re- 
mote ancestors.  That  our  surroundings  can  and  do  exert  a  pro- 
found influence  on  us  is  a  fact,  however,  that  each  of  us  can 
observe  in  his  own  lifetime.  The  child's  nervous  system,  though 
set  in  a  certain  way,  can  yet  be  moulded  to  a  very  considerable 
extent ;  the  habit  imposed  by  education  becomes  second  nature. 
This,  indeed,  is  the  chief  problem  of  education.  In  psychologi- 
cal language,  the  teacher  must  find  out  the  child's  natural  mental 
constitution,  noticing  the  good  and  bad  features  of  it,  and  must 
seek  by  influence  of  all  kinds  to  accentuate  the  good  and  mini- 
mise the  bad.  In  biological  language,  he  must  find  out  the 
child's  natural  nervous  tendencies,  and  strive  —  by  favouring 
the  formation  of  good  habits  —  to  keep  the  right  channels  open 
for  the  flow  of  mental  processes  and  dam  up  those  that  lead 
mind  astray.  Natural  constitution  and  natural  tendency  must 
be  partly  reinforced  and  partly  checked  by  acquired  constitution 
and  acquired  tendency. 

The  existence  of  nervous  tendency  is  the  key  to  Bodily  ten- 
the  three  forms  of  attention.  (i)The  natural  con-  account for 
ditions  of  life  are  so  far  alike  that  every  animal  must  the  forms  ol 

attention ; 

have  certain  tendencies,  if  it  is  to  live  at  all.     An 
animal   that   neglected   loud    sounds,    that    did    not  passive, 
notice  movement  in  its  neighbourhood  or  change  in 


8o 


Attention 


ictive, 


and  second- 
ary passive 
attention. 


its  customary  surroundings,  would  soon  fall  a  prey  to 
its  enemies.  Hence  passive  attention  to  these  things 
is  ingrained  in  our  physical  structure ;  a  mind  so  con- 
stituted as  not  to  attend  to  them  is  an  impossibility, 
the  conditions  of  life  and  evolution  being  what  they 
are.  (2)  But  the  list  of  things  that  we  must  attend  to 
is  not  very  long.  And  things  not  in  the  list  cannot, 
of  course,  attract  the  attention  so -forcibly,  cannot 
demand  it  so  imperatively,  as  the  others  can.  Hence 
attention  to  them  is  active  attention :  attention  under 
difficulties,  attention  with  several  claimants  upon 
consciousness.  The  strongest  idea  wins,  i.e.,  the  idea 
that  takes  most  easily  the  direction  of  our  nervous  ten- 
dencies ;  but  it  wins  only  after  a  struggle  with  other 
ideas,  which  follow  the  lines  laid  down  by  weaker 
rival  tendencies.  The  nervous  system  is  so  com- 
plicated that  it  may  be  the  scene  of  many  conflicting 
tendencies  at  the  same  moment.  (3)  At  this  stage 
the  development  of  the  animal  mind  ceases.  The 
animal  (unless  dominated  by  man,  formed  by  human 
training)  must  go  through  the  same  struggle,  make 
the  same  effort,  every  time  that  it  is  attentive. 
But  man  is  superior  to  the  animals  in  that  he  has 
a  conscious  tradition,  a  history :  he  has  records  of 
the  past,  in  the  light  of  which  he  can  look  forward 
to  the  future.  Hence  man  is  able  to  'take  sides' 
with  the  ideas  that  are  striving  for  the  first  place  in 
consciousness ;  he  can  help  one  idea,  and  hinder 
others.  Partly  we  do  this  for  ourselves,  thinking 
that  "  this  work  is  a  great  nuisance  now,  but  will  be 
worth  while  in  the  long  run " ;  partly,  and  more 
especially,  it  is  done  for  us  by  parents  and  teachers, 


§  33-    Attention  and  Affection  81 

whether  we  consent  or  not,  while  we  are  children. 
The  child  is  trained,  in  the  light  of  the  past  experi- 
ence of  the  human  race ;  the  young  of  animals  have 
no  such  training.  So  we  get,  in  man,  the  state  of 
secondary  passive  attention.  A  task  at  first  per- 
formed against  our  will,  with  pains  and  difficulty, 
becomes  easy  and  natural. 

Secondary  passive  attention  is  the  chief  condition  of  The  condi- 
human  progress.  The  more  a  piece  of  work  is  reduced  to  a  !i°ns  of 
matter  of  course,  the  more  power  has  the  mind  to  advance  progress, 
to  further  work.  This  becomes  natural  and  easy  in  its  turn, 
and  gives  place  to  new  work ;  and  so  on.  And  secondary 
passive  attention  is  possible  because  the  teacher,  guided  by 
past  experience,  can  lay  his  finger  upon  a  useful  tendency, 
a  useful  feature  of  mental  constitution,  in  the  child,  and  aid 
it  by  insisting  on  the  formation  of  habits  in  accordance  with 
it.  Active  attention  thus  appears  as  a  stage  of  waste,  a 
stage  to  be  got  out  of.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  a  stage  that 
must  be  passed  through,  and  passed  through  again  and 
again,  if  knowledge  is  to  grow  and  character  to  be  rightly 
moulded.  The  child  who  did  not  pass  through  it  would 
remain  at  the  level  of  the  animals,  the  sport  and  play  of 
any  great  or  striking  or  novel  occurrence  in  its  surround- 
ings. Active  attention  is  the  battle  which  must  be  won  by 
those  who  mean  to  master  their  surroundings  and  rise  to 
man's  full  height  above  the  animal  world. 

§  33.  Attention  and  Affection.  —  If  the  reader  had 
been  asked,  before  he  opened  this  book,  why  he 
attended  to  certain  things,  he  would  probably  have 
replied,  "Because  they  interest  me."  If  he  were 
asked  now,  after  having  read  the  previous  Section, 
he  would  probably  say,  "  Because  they  are  the  things 
that  follow  the  lines  of  my  nervous  tendencies,  or  fit  in 
with  my  mental  constitution."  Both  answers  are  cor- 
c 


82 


Attention 


interest. 


Attention 


front  of  the 

same  state. 


rect,  though  they  are  given  from  different  points  of 
view. 

What  is  a  thing  that  '  interests  '  us  ?  It  is  a  thing 
the  idea  of  which  is  overlaid  with  affection.  The 
affection  may  be  pleasantness  or  unpleasantness. 
We  are  interested  in  what  we  like,  in  what  pleases 
us  ;  and  we  are  interested  in  what  we  dislike,  in  what 
displeases  or  threatens  us,  —  we  are  '  fascinated  '  by 
accounts  of  crimes  and  disasters.  It  is  quite  true 
to  say  that  the  interesting  thing  is  the  thing  that 
attracts  the  attention  ;  just  as  it  is  quite  true  to  say 
that  the  thing  which  fits  in  with  our  mental  constitu- 
tion is  the  thing  that  attracts  the  attention. 

But  here  we  must  be  on  our  guard  against  a  com- 

m°n    err0r>       We   are  aPt   t0    think   that  WC    attend    to 

a  thing  after  we  have  found  it  interesting  :  that  the 

. 

pleasure  or  disgust  comes  first,  and  the  attention  fol- 
lows, drawn  to  the  thing  by  its  interestingness.  That 
is  not  true.  Affection  and  attention  come  together 
in  consciousness  ;  they  are  back  and  front,  obverse 
and  reverse,  of  the  same  state.  It  is  only  when  we 
are  feeling  that  we  are  attending  ;  only  when  we  are 
attending  that  we  are  feeling.  We  do  not  first  feel, 
and  then  attend  ;  we  feel  and  attend  together. 

Now,  then,  we  can  see  in  what  sense  the  two 
answers  to  our  question  are  correct.  A  thing  which 
follows  the  lines  of  our  nervous  tendencies  is  a  thing- 
to-be-attended-to  ;  at  the  same  time,  it  is  a  thing-to-be- 
felt.  But  a  felt  thing  is  an  interesting  thing.  Hence 
the  thing  that  we  attend  to  is  from  one  point  of  view 
a  thing  that  follows  the  lines  of  our  tendencies,  and 
from  another  point  of  view  a  thing  that  interests  us. 


§  33-    Attention  and  Affection  83 

The  notion  that  we  attend  after  we  have  felt  interested  is  Two  intro- 
so  wide-spread,  and  seems  so  natural,  that  the  reader  may  ^semblances 
find  it  hard  to  adopt  the  true  view,  and  to  think  of  affection  between 

and  attention  as  two  sides  of  the  same  mental  experience.   a"entlon  and 

affection. 
Let  us  see,  then,  what  introspection  has  to  say  of  their 

resemblance.  If  it  turns  out  that  they  have  certain  essen- 
tial characteristics  in  common,  it  will  be  easier  to  believe 
that,  when  the  one  appears,  the  other  appears  with  it. 

(1)  We  saw  in  §  27  (i)  that  affection  spreads  over  the 
whole  of  consciousness,  thus  differing  from  sensations,  many 
of  which  may  run  their  course  side  by  side  at  a  given  time. 
Attention,  in  the  same  way,  is  a  state  of  the  whole   con- 
sciousness.    All  the  ideas  present  are  influenced  by  it,  by 
way  of  exaltation  or  depression,  —  some  attended  to,  some 
attended  from. 

(2)  When  we  attend  to  a  sensation,  we  make  it  clearer, 
more  lasting,  etc.    We  cannot  attend  to  an  affection.     If  we 
try  to  do  so,  we  drive  the  affection  away  ;  the  pleasantness  or 
unpleasantness  disappears,  and  we  find  ourselves  looking  at 
some  obtrusive  sensation  or  idea  which  we  had  no  intention 
of  observing.     The  reason  is  clear :  attention  and  affection 
are  not  separate  matters,  but  two  sides  of  one  experience, 
and  it  is  as  impossible  to  attend  to  affection  as  it  would  be 
to  see  the  '  head '  side  of  a  coin  by  looking  at  the  '  tail '  side. 
—  Note  that  here  is  a  fourth  difference  between  sensation 
and  affection  (§  27  ;  and  cf.  §  12). 

A  good  illustration  of  the  fact  that  it  is  impossible  to  attend 
to  an  affection  is  given  in  a  paragraph  of  Mrs.  F.  H.  Burnett's 
reminiscences.  Speaking  of  her  child-life,  Mrs.  Burnett  says: 

" '  Is  this  really  the  party  ? '  she  [the  little  girl]  would  say 
mentally.  And  then,  to  convince  herself,  to  make  it  real,  '  Yes, 
it  is  the  Party.  I  am  at  the  Party.  I  have  my  party  frock  on  — 
they  are  all  dancing.  This  is  the  Party.'  And  yet  as  she  stood 
and  stared,  and  the  gay  sashes  floated  by,  she  was  restlessly  con- 
scious of  not  being  quite  convinced  and  satisfied,  and  of  some- 
thing which  was  saying,  '  Yes  —  we  are  all  here.  It  looks  real, 
but  somehow  it  doesn't  seem  exactly  as  if  it  was  the  Party? 


84  Attention 

And  one  does  it  all  one's  life.  Everybody  dances,  everybody 
hears  the  music,  —  but  was  there  ever  anyone  who  really  went  to 
the  Party  ?" 

That  is  to  say :  we  cannot  feel  if  we  try  to  introspect  our 
pleasure.  Attend  to  the  music  and  the  sashes,  and  you  will 
enjoy  yourself;  attend  to  your  enjoyment,  and  it  vanishes. 

The  •  out-  §  34.    The  Bodily  Attitude  in  Attention.  —  We  now 

attention  *urn  to  tne  '  outside  '  of  the  attentive  state,  the  bodily 
attitude  which  we  take  up  when  we  are  attending. 
This  may  be  briefly  described  as  the  attitude  which 
secures  the  most  favourable  conditions  for  the  use 
of  the  sense-organ  to  which  the  object  of  attention 
appeals.  There  is  a  brace  or  tension  of  the  whole 
body;  the  muscles  are  all  'under  control.'  The  head 
is  set  firmly  on  the  shoulders,  fronting  straight  for- 
ward if  the  object  is  a  sight,  thrust  out  onesidedly  if 
it  is  a  sound.  Breathing  is  kept  as  steady  as  possible 
in  the  former  case,  so  that  the  thing  looked  at  may 
not  be  obscured  by  up  and  down  movements  of  the 
head,  and  as  noiseless  as  possible  in  the  second,  so 
that  the  sound  may  not  be  interfered  with  by  the 
noises  of  respiration.  If  we  are  listening,  too,  the 
eyes  are  often  closed,  so  that  our  attention  may  not 
be  distracted  by  striking  or  moving  objects  in  the 
field  of  vision. 

In  the  case  of  passive  and  secondary  passive  at- 
tention, we  'fall  into'  this  attitude  naturally.  Our 
nervous  systems  have  been  drilled,  whether  by  the 
accumulated  experiences  of  the  race  or  in  the  course 
of  our  early  education,  and  we  adjust  ourselves  to  the 
circumstances  without  difficulty  or  hesitation.  In  the 
case  of  active  attention,  where  there  are  two  or  three 
ideas  (each  of  them  with  its  own  bodily  attitude) 


§  35-    Apperception  85 

clamouring  to  be  attended  to  at  the  same  time,  there 
is  a  conflict  of  attitudes  as  there  is  of  ideas ;  the  ad- 
justment takes  place  slowly,  and  is  completed  only 
after  many  checks  and  hindrances. 

It  is  plain  that  when  a  bodily  attitude  is  assumed  and  its  effect 

upon  the 

in  this  way,  slowly  and  laboriously,  a  large  number  -inside.1 
of  sensations  will  be  set  up  in  skin  and  muscle,  joint 
and  tendon.  These  sensations  are  aroused,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  in  active  attention.  Blended  together, 
they  make  up  the  experience  of  effort  which  always  Effort, 
accompanies  this  form  of  attention.  A  conscious- 
ness in  the  state  of  active  attention  thus  differs  from 
consciousnesses  in  the  state  of  passive  and  secondary 
passive  attention  in  that  a  new  concrete  process,  the 
experience  of  effort,  is  introduced  into  it,  over  and 
above  the  exaltation  and  depression  of  ideas  already 
present. 

That  the  bodily  attitude  of  attention  '  will  out,1  even  under 
circumstances  when  it  would  be  well  that  it  should  not,  is  seen 
from  the  following  passage  in  Fenimore  Cooper's  Last  of  the 
Mohicans : 

"  But  Heyward  saw  that  while  to  a  less  instructed  eye  the 
Mohican  chief  appeared  to  slumber,  his  nostrils  were  expanded, 
his  head  was  turned  a  little  to  one  side,  as  if  to  assist  the  organs 
of  hearing,  and  that  his  quick  and  rapid  glances  ran  incessantly 
over  every  object  within  the  power  of  his  vision"  (ch.  xix.). 

§  35.  Apperception.  —  Our  nervous  tendencies,  in- 
herited and  acquired,  decide  what  we  shall  attend  to, 
or  (in  other  words)  decide  when  we  shall  feel.  Each 
man  picks  out  a  world  of  his  own  from  the  great 
world  around  him,  and  is  affected  by  the  events  of 
this  private  world ;  and  the  nature  of  the  little  world 
in  which  he  lives  his  individual  life  is  determined  by 


86  Attention 

his  mental  constitution.  Let  us  see  what  this  means 
in  a  particular  instance. 

Selective  Suppose  that  you  are  opening  a  new  number  of 

a  magazine,  or  the  daily  paper.  As  you  do  so,  your 
eye  is  '  caught '  by  some  word  in  the  column  before 
you:  say,  by  the  word  grapnel.  Every  one  who 
reads  much  has  probably  had  this  experience  of  the 
'  catching '  of  the  eye  by  some  word  on  the  newly 
turned  page.  As  a  rule,  however,  we  go  on  to  our 
reading,  and  do  not  think  anything  about  the  matter. 
Yet  it  is,  to  the  psychologist,  a  matter  of  great 
interest,  as  a  very  little  consideration  will  show. 

(1)  Our  eye  has  been  caught  by  the  word  grapnel. 
Turning  to  the  place  where  we  saw  it,  we  may  find 
that  the  word  is  really  there.     The  paragraph  tells 
of  a  shipwreck  or  some  other  nautical  event,  and 
the  term  '  grapnel '  is  used  by  the  writer.     In  this 
case   we   have   seen   the    letters   just    as    they    are 
printed. 

Even  here,  however,  our  tendencies  have  been  at 
work.  For  the  word  '  grapnel '  is  not  printed  more 
clearly,  in  blacker  ink  or  larger  letters,  than  the 
other  words  of  the  paragraph.  We  should  not  have 
seen  it,  and  failed  to  see  them,  unless  we  had  been 
biassed,  unless  the  idea  of  '  grapnel '  had  somehow 
fitted  in  with  our  mental  constitution. 

(2)  But   the   word   need   not  be  there.     Looking 
carefully   down    the   column    we    may  find   nothing 
nearer  to  '  grapnel .'  than  the  word  grape :  the  para- 
graph  is   discussing  the  grape   harvest.     Then   we 
say :    "  I   must  have   seen   '  grape  '   and   thought   of 
'grapnel,'   because    I    was    so   interested    last   night 


§  35-    Apperception  87 

(or  last  week  or  last  month)  in  that  article  on 
anchors.  I  had  anchors  in  my  mind,  though  I  didn't 
know  it  when  I  opened  the  paper." 

(3)  But,    again,    the   word    'grape'    need   not    be 
there.     There  may  be  no  word  in  the  whole  para- 
graph that  is  at  all  like  '  grapnel ' ;  no  word  beginning 
with  gr.     Then   we   should  say :    "  That's   curious ! 
I  must  have  been  so  full  of  the  anchor  article  that  I 
saw  'grapnel'  in  my  imagination  and  supposed  I  saw 
it  on  the  paper.     I  shall  be  more  careful  next  time." 

(4)  And  lastly :    not  only  may  there  be  no  word 
like  '  grapnel '  in  the  column,  but  there  may  have  been 
no  article  on  anchors  read  lately.     Rack  our  memory 
as  we  will,  we  may  be  wholly  unable  to  find  any 
reason  for   our   having   seen   that   particular  word. 
Then   we   should  say :    "  That's   very  curious !     Of 
course,  I  have  always  been  interested  in  ships ;  but 
why  I  should  have  seen  'grapnel'  just  now,  when  I 
wasn't   thinking   of   ships   or   anything   to  do  with 
them,  passes  my  comprehension." 

The  psychologist  will  offer  a  similar  explanation  and  its 
of  these  three  facts.  In  (2)  and  (3),  he  will  say,  the  exPlanation- 
reading  of  the  article  on  anchors  had  thrown  open 
certain  channels  of  tendency,  the  tendency  that  makes 
you  'interested  in  ships.'  So  you  read  what  is  before 
you  not  as  it  really  is,  but  as  you  see  it  with  your 
mind  turned  into  these  channels  (cf.  §§  10,  12).  You 
were  biassed  or  prejudiced  before  you  opened  the 
paper.  As  for  the  last  case,  the  ship-tendencies 
were  so  strong  there  that  no  opening  of  flood-gates 
was  needed.  Your  mind  is  set  so  strongly  in  one 
direction  that  you  are  likely  to  see  everything  through 


88  Attention     • 

shipping-spectacles.  You  do  not  realise  that  you  are 
biassed :  it  seems  '  natural '  to  you  that  ships  should 
be  interesting.  But  it  is  just  because  the  love  of 
ships  is  ingrained  in  your  nervous  system  that  your 
perception  in  this  case  is  a  perception  of  some- 
thing which  is  not  there,  —  that  you  have  interpreted 
a  certain  arrangement  of  black  marks  which  do  not 
read  '  grapnel '  as  if  they  spelled  that  word. 
Appercep-  All  these  four  cases  are  cases  of  what  is  called 
lon'  apperception.  An  apperception  is  a  perception  whose 

character  is  determined,  wholly  or  chiefly,  by  the  pe- 
culiar tendencies  of  a  nervous  system,  rather  than  by 
the  nature  of  the  thing  perceived.  Sometimes,  as  in 
cases  (2)  and  (3),  you  can  tell  by  introspection  how  the 
channels  of  tendency  have  been  opened  up  (by  the 
reading  of  the  article  on  anchors);  sometimes,  how- 
ever, the  tendencies  are  so  strong  in  themselves,  and 
date  so  far  back  beyond  the  limits  of  your  memory, 
that,  while  you  see  their  effects  (the  alteration  of  per- 
ception), you  cannot  tell  what  it  is  that  takes  your 
mind  in  their  direction  on  any  particular  occasion. 
And  again  :  while  sometimes  the  tendencies  assist  per- 
.  ception,  as  in  case  (i),  at  other  times  they  may  lead 
you  badly  astray  in  your  interpretation  of  the  outside 
world,  as  in  the  three  remaining  instances. 

§  36.  The  Working  of  Attention.  —  The  experimental 
study  of  attention  has  given  us  valuable  knowledge 
as  to  the  way  in  which  the  mind  works  in  the  atten- 
tive state.     Two  points  may  be  mentioned  here. 
The  duration       (i)  We  cannot  attend  to  the  same  thing  for  any 
of  attention.    length  of  time  tOgether.     The  attention-wave  rises 


§  36.    The    Working  of  Attention  89 

and  falls  at  short  intervals :  attention  fluctuates. 
The  longest  stretch  of  attention  recorded  is  a 
stretch  of  24  sec.,  and  the  average  length  of 
attention  is  no  more  than  5  or  6  sees.  Often- 
times, of  course,  we  seem  to  be  steadily  attending 
for  a  long  period  to  some  one  thing  (as  when  we  are 
reading  a  book,  or  listening  to  music) ;  but  in  reality 
the  topic  is  continually  changing,  and  the  drops  and 
spurts  of  attention  are  not  noticed  as  we  pass  from 
idea  to  idea,  or  from  phrase  to  phrase. 

A  favourite  amusement  at  country  fairs  is  that  of  shooting  at 
an  egg-shell  which  dances  up  and  down  upon  a  jet  of  water. 
The  pressure  of  the  water  is  variable,  so  that  you  never  know 
when  the  egg  will  drop  and  when  it  will  spring  up.  — You  may 
think  of  the  attention-wave  in  Fig.  10  as  a  jet  of  this  kind,  and 
of  the  idea  attended  to  as  the  egg-shell.  Every  half-dozen  sec- 
onds the  jet  spurts  up,  and  the  idea  becomes  clear ;  but  the  spurt 
is  followed  by  a  drop,  in  which  the  idea  falls  into  obscurity  again. 

(2)  We  cannot  attend  to  many  things  at  once.  If  The  range 
a  page  of  'printer's  pie,'  a  page  of  letters  mixed  at  ofatte 
haphazard,  is  shown  to  us  for  a  second  or  two,  we 
can  read  only  4  or  5  letters  in  a  single  flash  of  atten- 
tion. The  top  of  the  attention-wave  cannot  carry 
more  than  4  or  5  simple  perceptions  at  the  same 
time.  But  —  and  this  is  the  important  thing  —  we 
can  read  4  or  5  familiar  short  words  as  easily  as  we 
can  read  the  4  or  5  separate  letters.  This  shows 
that  our  reading  of  short  words  is  done  by  general 
impression,  by  a  grasp  of  the  look  of  the  whole 
word  rather  than  by  any  method  of  spelling-out  the 
letters. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  us  to  read  as  quickly  as  we  do 
if  we  read  by  letters.  If  I  am  reading  a  work  on  the  fauna 


9o 


Attention 


of  Australia,  and  the  word  ornithorhyncus  occurs,  I  probably 
see  the  first  two  or  three  letters  distinctly,  then  have  a  vague 
impression  of  a  long  line  of  high  and  low  letters,  and  then 
catch  the  final  cus  as  my  eye  moves  towards  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  page.  With  my  Australia-tendencies  at  work, 
this  is  fully  enough  to  give  me  the  meaning  of  the  whole 
word  ornithorhyncus. 

Again :  if  we  read  by  letters,  we  should  not  be  so  apt  as 
we  are  to  overlook  misprints  in  books.  As  we  read  so 
largely  by  general  impression,  a  wrong  letter  here  or  there 
does  not  matter,  —  does  not  attract  the  attention. 


§  37.    The  Physiological  Conditions  of  Attention.  — 

To  understand  the  physiological  conditions  of  atten- 
tion,  we   must   understand   the   general   plan   upon 
which  the  nervous  system  is  built. 
Thestructu-        Think  of  the  nerves  which  run  from  the  sense- 

ral  plan  of  the  ,_t         i        •  i  r         «i  T 

nervous  sys-    organs   to   the   brain  as  a  number  of   railway-lines. 

tem  These    lines   converge   at   first   in   the   lower  brain- 

centres,  the  grey  masses  within  the  brain  (F.,  752). 
Running  farther,  they  converge  again  in  the  various 
sense-centres  of  the  brain  cortex.  Running  still 
farther,  they  end  in  intermediate  areas,  termed  the 
'  association  centres  of  Flechsig.'  From  all  three  sets 
of  stations  other  lines  run  out,  either  directly  or  indi- 
rectly (i.e.,  by  way  of  lower  centres)  to  the  muscles. 

The  use  of  the  centres  of  the  first  class  we  shall 
discuss  later  (§§  72,  106).  We  are  concerned  now 
with  the  sense-centres  and  association-centres.  At- 
tention to  an  idea  probably  means,  on  the  physiologi- 
cal side,  that  the  lines  running  to  and  from  the  area 
within  which  that  idea  is  excited  and  the  other  areas 
('sense'  and  'association')  functionally  connected 


and  its 
meaning  for 
attention. 


Questions  and  Exercises  91 

with  it  are  open,  whereas  the  lines  of  intercommuni- 
cation throughout  the  rest  of  the  cortex  are  more  or 
less  effectually  blocked. 

The  cortex  as  a  whole  represents  a  certain  limited  amount 
of  energy.  When,  therefore,  the  currents  of  excitation  are 
determined  to  a  particular  area,  the  enhanced  activity  of 
this  area  drains  the  rest  of  the  cortex  of  its  energy,  on  the 
same  principle  that  the  lights  in  an  electric  car  grow  dim 
when  the  car  starts. 

It  should,  perhaps,  be  said  that  some  authors  regard  the 
frontal  lobes  of  the  brain  as  a  supreme  regulative  centre,  whose 
activity  is  essential  for  the  formation  of  an  attentive  conscious- 
ness. But  the  researches  of  P.  Flechsig  (professor  of  psychiatry 
in  the  University  of  Leipsic)  seem  to  make  this  position  untena- 
ble (see  Quest,  n,  p.  23). 

When  a  cell  has  exploded,  it  must  take  time  to 
recover ;  it  cannot  explode  again  till  it  has  been  re- 
charged. That  is  why  attention  is  interrupted,  why 
we  can  attend  only  for  a  few  seconds  at  a  time.  The 
spurts  of  the  attention-wave  correspond  to  the  succes- 
sive discharges  of  cortical  cells. 

The  bodily  conditions  of  affection  (p.  68)  are  to  be 
looked  for  in  the  state  of  nutrition  of  the  excited  cor- 
tical areas.  If  these  are  well-nourished,  irrigated  by 
abundant  fresh  blood,  the  thing  attended  to  is  pleas- 
ant ;  if  they  are  ill-nourished,  it  is  unpleasant. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

(1)  Give  a  list  of  the  things  which  in  your  own  experience 
appeal  to  the  passive  attention,  and  of  the  things  which  always 
require  an  effort  if  they  are  to  be  attended  to.     Can  you  draw 
from  your  experience  any  instance  of  secondary  passive  atten- 
tion ?     If  so,  trace  its  development  from  active  attention. 

(2)  Write  out  all  the  words  you  can  think  of  which  are  de- 
scriptive of  mental  constitution. 

(3)  What  incidents  can  you  remember,  in  history  or  in  fic- 
tion, which  bring  out  differences  of  mental  constitution  ? 


92  Attention 

(4)  Describe  carefully  the  bodily  attitude  (a)  of  the  scout 
(visual  attention)  and  (b)  of  the  eavesdropper  (auditory  atten- 
tion).    What  sensations  are  set  up  by  the  two  attitudes?     What 
is  the  reason  for  the  difference  between  the  two  ? 

(5)  Prove  the  fact  that  the  attention  is  interrupted,  not  con- 
tinuous, in  this  way.     Seat  the  subject  blindfold  in  a  chair,  so 
that  he  sits  sidewise  to  the  length  of  the  room.     Hold  a  watch  at 
the  level  of  his  ear,  and  remove  it  until  its  ticking  is  only  just 
audible.     As  he  listens,  the  sound  will  alternately  disappear  and 
reappear :  disappear  as  the  attention-wave  falls,  and  reappear  as 
it  rises  again.     Let  him  lift  his  finger  at  each  disappearance. 
Count  off  on  the  watch  the  number  of  seconds  between  disap- 
pearance and  disappearance. 

(6)  Draw,  on  a  large  scale,  an  outline  map  of  the  nervous  sys- 
tem, showing  the  ingoing  and  outgoing  nerves,  and  the  three  sets 
of  stations.     Mark  the  two  kinds  of  nerves  in  different-coloured 
inks.     With  the  sketch  in  your  hand,  and  without  looking  at  the 
book,  tell  what  happens  in  the  nervous  system  (a)  when  we  are 
attending  to  a  pleasant  sight,  and  (£)  when  we  are  attending  to 
an  unpleasant  sound. 

(7)  If  unpleasant  feelings  are  bad  for  us,  why  should  we  be 
attracted  by  unpleasant  topics  ?     Why  should  we  be  '  fascinated ' 
by  accounts  of  brutal  murders  and  distressing  accidents? 

(8)  If  a  child  has  fallen  and  hurt  itself,  and  you  can  distract 
its  attention  from  the  pain,  it  stops  crying.     Why  is  this? 

(9)  To  test  the  range  of  attention,  i.e.,  to  find  out  how  many 
objects  can  be  attended  to  at  once,  you  must  have  a  simple  appa- 
ratus constructed.     Fasten  two  stout  uprights,  4  ft.  high,  upon  a 
base.     The  inner  surfaces  of  the  uprights  must  be  grooved,  so 
that  a  board  i  ft.  wide  will  slide  down  easily  between  them.    The 
uprights  may  be   braced  together   behind.     Make   the  sliding 
board  3  ft.  long.     At  its  centre  cut  out  a  lo-inch  square.      It  is 
well  to  paint  board  and  uprights  black.    Six  inches  from  one  end 
of  the  board,  and  directly  in  the  middle,  tack  a  round  piece  of 
white  card,  of  i  in,  diameter. 

Cut  pieces  of  stout  cardboard  I  ft.  square.  Over  10  square 
inches  of  the  cards  paste  (a)  large  black  letters  in  haphazard 
order,  and  (d)  sets  of  short  words.  Four  words  of  four  letters 
should  fill  the  10  inches.  For  each  experiment  pin  one  of  these 
cards  to  the  back  of  the  uprights,  with  its  upper  edge  just  I  ft. 
below  their  top. 

Raise  the  sliding  board,  so  that  its  bottom  is  level  with  the 
bottom  of  the  card  attached  to  the  uprights.  The  card  is  now 


Questions  and  Exercises  93 

covered  by  the  board ;  and  the  round  white  mark  on  the  board 
lies  over  the  centre  of  the  group  of  words  or  letters.  Tell  your 
audience  to  look  at  this  mark:  and  drop  the  board.  The  10- 
inch  opening  falls  over  the  lo-inch  group  of  letters,  letting  them 
be  seen  for  a  moment ;  and  the  board  comes  to  rest  with  its  upper 
portion  covering  the  card  again.  To  prevent  noise,  lay  a  strip  of 
felt  between  the  feet  of  the  uprights.  And  ii  the  onlookers  have 
(as  will  probably  be  the  case)  followed  the  falling  mark  with 
their  eyes,  instead  of  looking  steadily  at  the  place  that  it  fell  from, 
repeat  the  experiment  with  the  same  card.  Let  each  member  of 
the  audience  write  down  what  letters  or  words  he  sees  as  the 
board  drops. 

By  driving  a  wire-nail  through  one  of  the  braces  of  the  uprights 
and  letting  the  point  penetrate  the  back  of  the  sliding  board  you 
can  hold  the  latter  in  position  till  the  audience  is  ready  for  an 
experiment.  Then  release  it  by  withdrawing  the  nail. 

(10)  It  is  said  above  that  a  performing  animal  (a  trained  dog 
or  monkey)   gives   evidence    of   secondary   passive    attention. 
Explain  this. 

(11)  Why  is  it  that  the  hidden  drawing  in  a  'puzzle  picture' 
is  so  difficult  to  see  at  first,  and  so  difficult  not  to  see  when  you 
have  once  found  it. 

(12)  Can  you  give  any  reason,  besides  that  mentioned  in  §  12, 
for  the  occurrence  of  blanks  in  your  introspection  of  the  idea  of 
the  chair  (§  4)  ? 

(13)  "It  is  only  when  we  are  feeling  that  we  are  attending; 
only  when  we  are  attending  that  we  are  feeling"  (p.  82).     Yet 
when  we  are  attending  strenuously,  —  engaged  upon  a  difficult 
problem,  standing  ready  to  return  the  service  of  an  unknown 
opponent  at  tennis,  —  feeling  is  by  no  means  prominent  in  con- 
sciousness.    Can  you  explain  this  seeming  discrepancy? 

(14)  Make   a  careful   analysis   of  the   experience  of  effort. 
What  sensations  do  you  find,  over  and  above  those  mentioned 
on  p.  85? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  ch.  xiii.     (Perform  the  experiments  indicated 

in  Figs.  54-56.) 

Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  pp.  74-79,  ch.  vi 
Titchener,  Outline,  §§  35-42. 
Wundt,  Lectures,  Lects.  XVI.,  XVII. 
Wundt,  Outlines,  §  15. 


CHAPTER  VI 
PERCEPTION 

§  38.   The   Formation   of   Perceptions   and  Ideas.  — 

Most  people,  if  asked  what  were  the  simplest  bits  of 
mental  experience,  of  mind,  that  they  could  name 
would  say :  "  Perceptions,  and  feelings,  and  ideas." 
They  would  look  upon  sensations,  if  they  thought  of 
them  at  all,  as  physical  processes  (§  27),  and  they 
would  not  dream  of  separating  affection  from  the 
perceptions  and  ideas  that  it  accompanies. 

We  saw  in  §  28  how  easily  the  feelings  might  be  taken  for 
simple,  elementary  processes.  It  is  natural  that  the  same  mistake 
should  be  made  in  the  case  of  perceptions  and  ideas  :  for  these, 
with  the  feelings,  are  the  simplest  processes  that  occur  in  real 
life,  in  everyday  mental  experience.  Recalling  the  terms  used 
in  §  8  we  may  say  that  they  are  the  simplest  concrete  processes 
in  mind,  —  the  simplest  that  we  can  find  by  ordinary  observa- 
tion, without  employing  the  scientific  method  of  introspection. 

Feeling  we  have  already  discussed  (§  25).  And 
we  have  more  than  once  referred  to  perceptions  and 
ideas  as  'groups  of  sensations.'  How,  now,  are 
these  concrete  processes  formed  ?  How  is  it  that 
certain  sensations  get  welded  or  blended  together 
so  closely  that  the  whole  looks,  at  first  sight,  like 
one  simple  process  ? 

HOW  sensa-  If  we  make  our  question  more  definite,  it  will  fur- 
™sh  its  own  answer-  Why  does  my  idea  of  Lake 
Cayuga  include  sensations  of  blue  and  cold,  and  not 
sensations  of  sour  and  strain  f  The  reason  is  clear. 

9* 


§  39-    Difference  between  Perception  and  Idea     95 

Sensations  hold  together  in  consciousness  when  the 
stimuli,  the  things  or  processes  in  the  outside  world 
that  give  rise  to  them,  occur  together.  Natural 
objects  appeal  to  the  mind,  in  each  of  their  aspects, 
through  some  particular  sense-organ:  every  object, 
as  a  whole,  appealing  to  several  sense-organs.  The 
sensations  hold  together,  then,  just  as  the  different 
aspects  of  the  natural  object  hold  together.  The 
perception  or  idea  stands  for,  represents,  means 
some  material  thing  or  process;  and  the  sensations 
that  compose  it  can  no  more  fall  apart  than  the  blue- 
ness  of  the  water  can  be  separated  in  my  experience 
from  its  coolness. 

Sensations  are  welded  together,  therefore,  under  the  influ-   The  bidding 
ence  or  at  the  bidding  of  our  physical  surroundings.     A  per-  ofnature- 
ception  or  idea  always  means  something,  stands  for  some 
object.     Mind  is  developed  in  close  interaction  with  nature ; 
and  what  nature  binds  together  remains  together  in  percep- 
tion and  idea. 

§  39.  The  Difference  between  Perception  and  Idea.  —  Perception 
Perceptions  and  ideas  are,  both  alike,  groups  of  sen-  "eaTnter- 
sations;  and,  both  alike,  groups  of  sensations  which  nallx 

aroused. 

are  held  together  by  the  command  of  nature.  They 
differ  solely  in  this  respect :  that,  when  we  perceive, 
the  object  which  arouses  the  sensations  is  actually  be- 
fore us,  appealing  to  various  sense-organs ;  whereas, 
when  we  have  an  idea,  the  object  is  not  before  us,  but 
the  sensations  are  set  up  inside  the  brain  without  any 
disturbance  of  the  organs  on  the  surface  of  the  body. 

Sensations   may   be   set  up   from   outside  the  body,  by  Instances  oi 
stimulation  of  eye  or  ear  or  nose ;  or  they  may  be  set  up 
from  within  the  body,  by  an  excitation  in  the  cortical  area 


g6  Perception 

to  which  the  nerves  from  eye  or  ear  or  nose  run  (§§  14,  16). 
This  excitation  may  be  aroused  directly,  by  a  change  in  the 
blood-supply  of  the  cortical  area ;  or  indirectly,  by  an  im- 
pulse running  to  this  area  from  other  cells  which  have  been 
exploded  by  a  stimulus  working  at  the  outside  of  the  body. 
Thus  I  may  see  a  green  tree  in  my  mind's  eye  when  there 
is  before  me  neither  any  green  object  nor  anything  to  sug- 
gest green  :  in  this  case  the  green-cells  have  been  exploded 
by  a  change  in  blood-supply.  Or  I  may  see  it  because  I 
am  reading  a  description  of  scenery  in  which  the  printed 
word  '  green '  occurs :  in  this  case  the  green-cells  are 
exploded  indirectly,  by  way  of  the  word  stimulus.  A  per- 
ception, then,  contains  sensations  of  the  first  kind,  those  set 
up  from  outside  the  body ;  an  idea  consists  wholly  of  sensa- 
tions of  the  second  kind,  those  aroused  directly  or  indirectly 
within  the  brain  itself.  When  I  am  looking  at  a  table,  as  it 
stands  in  front  of  me,  I  have  a  perception  of  a  table,  I  per- 
ceive it ;  but  if  I  shut  my  eyes  and  think  of  a  table,  or  if 
some  particular  table  'comes  into  my  head'  along  with 
other  memories,  or  if  I  am  picturing  to  myself  the  sort  of 
table  I  mean  to  buy  when  I  am  rich  enough  to  furnish  my 
study  properly,  then  I  have  an  idea  of  a  table,  I  ideate  it. 

This  difference,  however,  is  most  certainly  a  differ- 
ence that  makes  itself  known  to  introspection.  We 
can  all  tell  a  perception  from  an  idea.  Sometimes, 
it  is  true,  we  make  laughable  mistakes  by  confusing 
the  two :  but  only  a  drunkard  or  a  madman  would 
habitually  confound  real  things  with  remembered  or 
imagined  things.  What,  then,  is  the  introspective 
difference  between  the  two  groups  of  sensations  ? 

In  the  first  place,  (i)  the  sensations  differ  greatly 
in  strength  or  intensity  in  the  two  cases.  My  per- 
ception of  a  table  is  much  more  vivid,  much  more  of 
a  living  reality,  than  my  idea  of  it  is.  Ideas  are  pale 


§  39-    Difference  between  Perception  and  Idea     97 

and  faint,  compared  with  perceptions.  Again,  (2)  the 
sensations  that  make  up  the  idea  are  less  lasting 
than  those  of  the  perception.  Of  course,  the  percep- 
tion (just  because  it  is  mental)  is  a  process,  a  going 
on :  as  I  look  at  the  table  the  centre  of  interest 
changes,  the  attention  travels  from  sensation  to  sensa- 
tion ;  I  cannot  hold  the  whole  sensation-group  fixed 
and  steady,  as  if  it  were  a  thing.  But  the  idea  is  still  less  stable 
less  stable,  still  more  fluid ;  the  sensations  that  make 
it  up  come  and  go  with  even  greater  swiftness.  And 
lastly,  (3)  the  idea  is  less  perfect,  a  less  accurate  pict-  and  less 
ure  of  the  outside  world,  than  the  perception.  Look  ^nthe 
at  the  view  from  your  window.  Now  shut  your  eyes,  perception, 
and  form  an  idea  of  the  view.  The  space  has  shrunk, 
so  to  speak ;  details  are  lost ;  you  are  not  sure  about 
this  and  that  feature  of  the  landscape.  Or  try  to 
form  an  idea  of  the  happenings  of  five  minutes.  It 
is  hardly  possible :  the  time  seems  to  have  shrunk,  as 
the  space  did  in  the  previous  example. — These  are 
the  three  differences  that  introspection  reveals  be- 
tween perception  and  idea,  between  a  sensation-group 
containing  outside  elements  and  a  sensation-group 
made  up  entirely  of  elements  from  within  the  brain. 

Notice  the  important  differences  in  conscious  surroundings  and    Reason  for 
conscious  background  in  the  two  cases.     When  we  perceive,  the    'hese  differ- 
sensations  are  held  fast,  and  constantly  renewed  by  their  stimuli. 
The  details  of  the  landscape,  the  events  of  the  five  minutes,  are 
there  to  catch  the  eye  and  ear.     But  when  we  are  merely  '  think- 
ing of1  something,  there  are  no  outside  stimuli  to  attach  our 
thought  to,  to  refresh  ourselves  by ;  it  requires  a  greater  effort  to 
attend,  and  there  is  a  crowd  of  rival  ideas  hovering  round  the 
central  idea  and  ready  to  displace  it.     So  the  idea  is  weaker, 
more  changeable  and  less  complete  than  the  perception. 

Since  the  differences  between  the  inside  and  the  outside  sensa- 


98 


Perception 


The  outside 
world  is  a 
world  of 
quality, 


of  space 


and  of  time. 


All  three 
aspects  are 
practically 
important. 


tions  are  so  great,  some  psychologists  have  held  that  their  excita- 
tions must  occur  in  different  parts  of  the  brain-cortex.  This  view 
is  borne  out  by  the  recent  work  of  Flechsig  (see  pp.  23,  90  f.), 
who  distinguishes  the  sense-centres  from  the  '  association '  cen- 
tres of  the  cortex.  Thus  a  sensation  of  sight  due  to  the  action 
of  light  upon  the  eye  would  be  set  up  by  the  explosion  of  cells  in 
the  sight-centre  of  the  occipital  lobes  ;  but  if  that  sensation  were 
recalled  in  memory,  when  no  stimulus  was  present,  it  would  be 
set  up  in  an  '  association '  area  of  the  cortex,  an  area  lying  be- 
tween the  sight-centre  and  the  centre  for  touch  and  organic  sen- 
sation. Pathology  offers  confirmatory  evidence ;  but  the  matter 
is  still  in  dispute,  and  will  doubtless  remain  so  for  some  time  to 
come.  (See  Donaldson,  Growth  of  Brain,  266.) 

§  40.  The  Three  Classes  of  Perceptions.  —  There  are 
three  aspects  of  things  that  strike  us,  as  we  look  out 
upon  the  world  around  us.  (i)  In  the  first  place,  we 
are  struck  by  the  likenesses  and  differences  among 
things.  Everything  is  itself,  and  not  something  else ; 
and  at  the  same  time,  everything  is  more  like  certain 
things  than  it  is  like  certain  other  things.  (2)  Sec- 
ondly, we  are  struck  by  the  arrangement  of  things 
in  space.  One  thing  is  here,  another  there ;  one  is 
far  off,  another  close  at  hand ;  one  is  large,  another 
small ;  one  of  this  form,  another  of  that.  And 
lastly,  (3)  we  are  struck  by  the  progress  of  things 
in  time.  The  thunder  follows  the  lightning;  a  bird 
flies  across  the  landscape  now  slowly  and  now 
quickly ;  the  waves  beat  upon  the  shore  with  a  defi- 
nite rhythm ;  the  shooting  stars  drop  irregularly,  in 
quick  succession  or  at  long  intervals. 

All  these  aspects  of  things  are  of  great  practical  impor- 
tance to  us :  otherwise,  indeed,  they  would  never  have 
'  struck '  us  at  all.  Think  of  the  importance  of  the  first 
aspect  for  the  merchant !  He  must  know  good  cloth  from 
bad,  good  sugar  from  bad,  good  timber  from  bad ;  else  we 
shall  not  go  to  him  to  supply  us  with  food  and  clothes  and 


§  4°-     The   Three  Classes  of  Perceptions        99 

shelter.  Again,  we  must  know  how  far  off  things  are,  and 
where  they  are,  and  how  large  they  will  prove  to  be  when 
we  get  to  them ;  else  navigation  and  the  planning  of  towns 
and  the  building  of  houses  would  be  impossible.  Lastly,  we 
must  know  when  things  happen,  and  how  long  they  take, 
and  how  often  they  occur ;  else  we  could  not  travel,  —  could 
not  even  lay  out  a  single  day's  work. 

Each   of   these   three  aspects  of   material  things 
gives  rise  to  its  own  set  of  perceptions ;  and  each  set 
of  perceptions  is  built  up  upon  a  particular  attribute 
or  aspect  of  sensations,     (i)  Perceptions  of  the  first  We  have 
kind  may  be  termed  perceptions  of  quality  or  quali-  qua     lve> 
tative   perceptions ;    they   tell   us   of   the   nature   or 
quality  of  things.     These  perceptions  are  built  up  of 
sensations  looked  at  as  qualities  (§  22),  without  regard 
to  their  intensity,  etc.     (2)  Perceptions  of  the  second  spatial 
kind  are  termed  perceptions  of  space,  or  spatial  per- 
ceptions.    They  are  built  up  of  sensations  looked  at 
as  surfaces  or  extents,  not  as  qualities  or  intensities. 
(3)  Perceptions  of  the  third  kind  are  perceptions  of  and  tempo- 
time  or   temporal  perceptions,   and  are  built  up  of 
sensations  looked  at  as  lengths  of  time,  or  durations, 
not  as  qualities,  intensities  or  extents. 

We  are  already  familiar  with  the  idea  that  sensations  have 
quality  and,  besides  quality,  a  certain  amount  of  strength  or 
intensity.  The  fact  that  they  have  extent  and  duration  is 
something  that  we  have  not  hitherto  touched  on. 

Take  duration  first.  Think  of  any  sensation  that  occurs 
to  you  :  a  red,  a  sweet,  a  pressure,  a  strain,  a  tone,  a  scent. 
Can  you  think  of  it  as  lasting  no  time?  No!  However 
short  it  is,  it  must  last  for  a  moment.  And  this  character 
of  lasting  a  little  while,  of  having  duration,  —  a  character 
which  belongs  to  all  sensations,  from  whatever  organ  they 


IOO  Perception 

come,  —  is  what  makes  it  possible  for  them  to  combine  in 
such  a  way  as  to  form  time-perceptions. 

Extent  is  rather  more  difficult.  We  are  accustomed  to 
regard  extent  as  a  mark  of  material  things,  of  solid  bodies ; 
and  it  seems  strange  to  say  that  mental  processes  have  it. 
But  think  of  a  colour.  Can  you  think  of  it  in  any  other 
way  than  as  a  patch  of  colour,  a  spread-out  colour  ?  How- 
ever small  you  make  it  in  your  thought,  however  much  you 
reduce  it  to  a  point  of  colour,  has  it  not  still  length  and 
breadth  ?  So  with  pressure  on  the  skin.  Think  of  a  press- 
ure which  is  as  point-like  as  you  can  conceive  it,  the  pressure 
of  a  fine  needle.  Still  it  is  spread  out ;  you  could  measure 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  needle-point  under  the  micro- 
scope :  and  you  cannot  form  an  idea  of  pressure  at  all 
except  as  having  some  length  and  breadth,  some  extent. 

This  character  of  extent  belongs  only  to  sensations  of 
sight  and  to  the  sensations  of  pressure  coming  from  skin 
and  joint.  But  these  sensations  never  appear  in  conscious- 
ness without  it ;  and  through  it  we  get  our  perceptions  of 
space.  —  No  other  sensations  possess  it :  not  even  sensations 
of  taste  or  temperature,  still  less  those  of  sound  and  smell. 
It  is  curious  to  think,  but  it  is  true,  that  we  should  not 
know  the  world  to  be  a  space-world  if  we  had  no  sensations 
of  colour  or  brightness  or  pressure. 

instances  of  Most  important  of  our  qualitative  perceptions  are 
those  of  colour  (mixture  of  brightness  and  pure 
'  colour),  of  a  '  note '  or  chord  in  music,  of  taste  and 
smell,  and  of  touch  (mixture  of  skin  sensations  with 
those  coming  from  muscle,  tendon  and  joint).  Among 
spatial  perceptions  we  may  mention  those  of  place  or 
position,  of  form,  of  size,  of  distance,  of  direction,  of 
extent  of  movement ;  and  among  temporal  percep- 
tions, those  of  place  or  position  in  time,  of  rhythm,  of 
frequency,  and  of  rate  of  movement.  Each  of  these 
perceptions  has  its  own  psychological  history,  its  own 


§  41.    The  Development  of  Perception         IOI 

mode  of  formation.      We  must  be  content  here  to 
touch  very  briefly  upon  a  few  of  the  most  valuable. 

§  41.  The  Development  of  Perception.  —  Before  we  Pure  percep. 
go  on  to  deal  with  special  perceptions,  however,  we 
must  notice  the  fact  that  perception,  like  sensation, 
shows  different  strata  or  levels  of  development.  In 
the  early  days  of  mental  evolution,  perception  was 
wholly  dominated  by  the  object  of  perception,  the 
material  thing  perceived.  But  as  experience  grew, 
and  the  store  of  ideas  increased,  the  mind  became 
ready  to  meet  the  material  thing  half-way ;  a  full  and 
complete  perception  could  be  touched-off  by  some 
single  aspect  of  the  thing,  and  the  other  aspects 
supplied  by  sensations  aroused  within  the  brain. 
The  perception  now  includes  not  only  outside  sen-  assimilation 
sations,  but  in  addition  to  these  a  large  —  perhaps  an 
overwhelming  —  number  of  inside  sensations.  And 
lastly,  as  language  developed,  and  men  came  to  have 
more  and  more  thoughts  that  they  wished  to  com- 
municate to  each  other,  the  thing  perceived  degen- 
erated into  a  mere  symbol  or  sign  of  the  idea,  and  symbolic 
the  group  of  central  sensations,  that  its  perception  F 
brought  into  consciousness :  the  perceived  thing  was 
actually  attended  from,  and  the  central  sensations 
that  clustered  round  the  outside  sensations  were 
attended  to.  So  we  have  a  development  in  three 
stages :  first  the  pure  perception,  made  up  entirely 
of  outside  sensations ;  then  the  mixed  perception,  — 
or  assimilation,  as  it  is  technically  named,  —  made 
up  partly  of  inside  and  partly  of  outside  sensations ; 
and  lastly  the  symbolic  perception,  in  which  the 


IO2 


Perception 


Instances  of 
the  three 
sorts  of 
perception. 


only  service  done  by  outside  sensations  is  that  of 
arousing  the  important,  inside  processes. 

We  have  instances  of  the  original  form  of  perception  in 
our  own  experience,  when  we  are  brought  into  contact  with 
something  altogether  new  and  strange  to  us.  Suppose,  e.g., 
that  a  friend  shows  you  a  photograph,  consisting  of  a  circle, 
scrawled  all  over  with  random  zigzag  marks,  mounted  on  a 
cabinet-sized  card,  and  dated.  What  is  it  ?  You  do  not 
know :  you  have  a  pure  perception,  —  all  that  the  thing 
means  to  you  is  just  that  which  it  is,  a  circular  photograph 
of  scrawls.  —  Then  your  friend  says  :  *'  What  happened  on 
that  date?"  A  light  flashes  across  you  :  "The  great  earth- 
quake !  "  you  say.  Now  the  thing  is  not  a  photograph  of 
scrawls;  it  is  the  record  of  an  earthquake,  a  seismogram. 
Your  perception  has  become  mixed;  a  mass  of  central  sen- 
sations has  been  awakened,  and  gives  the  photograph  a 
different  and  a  more  definite  meaning. 

All  our  everyday  perceptions  are  of  this  mixed  sort,  i.e., 
are  assimilations,  unless  indeed  they  have  advanced  to  the 
symbolic  stage.  Thus  I  say  that  I  '  see  '  my  table.  What  I 
see,  however,  is  merely  a  surface  of  a  certain  colour,  dis- 
torted by  perspective  as  I  approach  it  from  this  side  or 
from  that.  When  I  perceive  the  table,  I  have  in  mind  a 
good  deal  more  than  the  sensations  coming  in  through  the 
eye.  I  have  ideas  of  hardness  and  smoothness,  ideas  of  the 
uses  of  the  table  as  a  piece  of  furniture,  perhaps  the  idea  of 
the  word  '  table.'  The  perception  is  mixed. 

Chief  among  our  symbolic  perceptions  are  those  of  written 
and  spoken  words.  As  you  have  read  this  book,  have  you 
thought  of  the  form  of  the  words,  the  character  of  the  type, 
the  blackness  of  the  letters?  Your  aim  has  rather  been  to 
'  understand '  the  words.  You  have  instinctively  attended 
from  the  material  of  perception,  and  attended  to  the  ideas 
which  that  material  called  up. 

The  result  of  this  evolution  is  (i)  that  the  psychologist  has 
no  easy  task  when  he  tries  to  find  out  how  a  particular  percep- 


§  42-    Perceptions  of  Quality  103 

tion  was  first  formed,  and  (2)  that  his  enquiry  is  likely  to  end  in 
the  discovery  of  quite  unexpected  facts.  Our  minds  are  so  well 
stocked  with  ideas,  and  our  nervous  tendencies  have  given  us  so 
many  short  cuts  from  fact  to  meaning  (from  pure  to  symbolic 
perception),  that  we  hardly  recognise  our  perceptions  when  they 
are  dissected  and  laid  out  before  us  free  from  their  central  asso- 
ciates. Hence  the  reader  must  not  be  surprised  if  he  cannot 
easily  verify  some  of  the  following  statements  by  an  appeal  to 
his  own  consciousness. 

§  42.  Perceptions  of  Quality.  —  Qualitative  percep-  Qualitative 
tions  have  undergone  less  change  than  perceptions  a,eercform°dS 
of  time  and  of  space.  This  is  natural :  for  if  a  thing  to-day  as 

~    .  .  .  they  always 

is  sufficiently  itself  to  impress  its  nature  upon  us,  have  been, 
there  is  no  reason  why  this  impression  should  be  lost 
or  modified ;  indeed,  the  perception  would  cease  to 
be  of  value  as  a  perception  of  the  thing's  nature,  if 
it  were  liable  to  change  and  modification.  Percep- 
tions of  time  and  space,  on  the  other  hand,  once  ac- 
quired slowly  and  laboriously,  with  continual  testing 
and  retesting,  have  changed  much,  and  gained  much 
by  the  change.  It  would  be  a  great  waste  of  time 
and  energy  if  we  were  obliged  to  go  through  all  the 
steps  that  our  ancestors  took,  when  we  are  called 
upon  to  judge  of  movement  or  rhythm,  distance  or. 
direction ;  but  quality  is  the  same  for  us  as  it  was 
for  them. 

All  qualitative  perceptions  are  formed  upon   the 
same  plan.     A  number  of  sensation  qualities  are  run  by  fusion 
together,  fused  or  blended  together;  and  the  result 
of  the  fusion  or  blending  is  the  perception  of  the 
nature  or  character  of  some  material  object. 

Notice  that  the  qualitative  perception  is  not  the  sum  of  ( 
the  sensation  qualities  contained  in  it.     That  would  be  the  sensations. 


IO4  Perception 

case  if  the  sensations  were  things,  bits  of  mind  in  the  literal 
sense.  It  cannot  be  the  case  when  they  are  processes : 
processes  run  into  each  other,  interfere  with  each  other. 
Hence  the  qualitative  perception  is  something  less,  and 
something  more,  than  the  sum  of  its  sensation  qualities  : 
less,  because  some  of  the  sensations  overbear  or  check  or  in- 
terfere with  others  ;  more,  because  the  result  of  the  mixture 
is  novel,  —  is  a  perception,  a  process  that  means  something. 
a  concrete  process  with  a  specific  character  of  its  own. 

Taste.  We  will  take  three  illustrations,  (i)  Consider  the 

'  taste '  of  coffee.  This  is  a  qualitative  perception. 
It  contains  the  sensations  of  bitter,  the  real  taste  of 
the  coffee-berry;  of  warmth;  of  pressure,  the  'feel' 
of  the  liquid  in  the  mouth ;  a  peculiar  fragrance,  the 
coffee  odour ;  and  a  sight,  the  clear  brown  or  cloudy 
brown  of  the  coffee  in  the  cup.  These  are  the 
necessary,  essential  elements  in  the  perception. 
There  may  be  others :  the  sight  sensation  may  bring 
with  it  a  space  idea,  an  idea  of  the  position  of  cup 
and  saucer  upon  the  spread  table,  etc. ;  and  the  word 
'coffee'  may,  very  likely,  be  added.  In  this  case 
the  perception  is  of  the  mixed  sort :  but  it  may  quite 
well  be  a  pure  perception  of  quality.  In  either  case 
it  is  not  the  simple  process  that  at  first  it  seems  to 

Resistance,  be.  (2)  Consider  the  perception  of  resistance.  Here 
we  have  the  qualities  of  pressure  on  the  skin ;  of 
strain  in  the  tendons,  say,  of  the  arm ;  and  of  press- 
ure from  the  jamming  together  of  joints  and  the 
contraction  of  muscles.  Usually,  a  space  suggestion 
is  added :  the  form  and  direction  of  the  door  that 
resists  us,  or  of  the  obstacle  that  we  are  trying  to 

Clang.  remove ;  but  the  addition  is  not  necessary.  (3)  Sup- 

pose that  a  note  is  sounded  upon  some  instrument 


§  42.    Perceptions  of  Quality  105 

which  we  cannot  see.  Most  people  would  tell  us 
that  the  note  is  a  single  sensation ;  and  yet  we  are 
able  to  say  at  once  that  it  is  a  piano  note,  or  a  violin 
or  trumpet  or  banjo  note.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  every 
note  is  a  mixture  of  tones  and  noises.  There  is  one 
loud  tone,  which  gives  its  name  to  the  note  (c,  d,  e, 
etc.);  there  are  a  number  of  weaker  tones,  higher  in 
the  scale  than  the  loud  note,  and  therefore  called 
'  overtones ' ;  and  there  are  a  number  of  noise  quali- 
ties (//.,  237;  N.,  ch.  xxxv.).  All  these  sensations 
fuse  into  the  single  note,  the  perception.  But  the 
same  note  sounds  different  on  different  instruments, 
because  (a)  the  overtones  are  different,  and  (£)  the 
noises  are  different.  In  the  piano  the  noise  is  a  dull 
thud;  in  the  violin  a  harsh  scrape;  in  the  banjo  a 
click  or  pluck,  etc.  In  the  piano  certain  overtones 
are  strong,  in  the  violin  others,  etc.  The  trained  ear 
can  pick  out  the  separate  overtones  and  noises ;  the 
untrained  ear  can  do  no  more  than  hear  '  the  same 
note  differently? 

The  notes  of  a  musical  instrument  are  an  excellent  in- 
stance of  qualitative  perception.  The  space  idea  of  the 
instrument,  piano  or  violin,  is  not  apt  to  combine  with  them  ; 
and  the  result  of  the  mixture  of  sensations  is  so  different 
from  a  mere  sum  of  tones  and  noises,  so  much  '  itself,'  that 
unmusical  persons  have  difficulty  in  realising  its  complex 
nature. 

The  chief  reason  why  music  employs  no  more  than  90  Music 
out  of  the  possible  11,000  tones  (§  18)  is  that  the  musical 
scale  began  as  a  voice-scale,  a  succession  of  tones  sung. 
The  range  of  the  human  voice  is  limited  ;  hence  the  musical 
scale  is  cut  short  at  both  ends.  And  our  power  to  adjust 
the  larynx  is  limited ;  hence  the  unit  of  the  musical  scale 


io6  Perception 

(the  musical  '  semitone ')  is  much  larger  than  the  unit  of 
hearing  (the  '  tone  '  of  §  18).  Other  reasons  are  the  neces- 
sity of  keeping  a  keyboard  small  enough  for  easy  handling, 
the  unpleasant  shrillness  of  very  high  tones,  the  faintness  of 
very  low  tones,  etc. 


The -local          §  43.    Perceptions  of  Space:   Place  or  Locality  upon 

sign '  of  a 
pressure 


the  Skin.  —  If  you  are  passing  through  a  room  in  the 


dark,  and  bump  your  knee  against  something,  you 
are  quite  sure  that  it  is  your  knee  that  is  hurt :  more, 
you  are  sure  that  it  is  your  right  (or  left)  knee :  and 
more  still,  you  know  that  it  is  hurt  just  in  one  par- 
ticular place,  above  or  below,  to  right  or  left,  of  the 
knee-cap.  How  do  you  know  this  ?  What  tells  you 
that  the  bump  is  a  knee-bump  ? 

One  might  suppose,  perhaps,  that  a  knee-pressure 
is  different,  in  quality,  from  a  pressure  elsewhere. 
But  that  is  not  the  case :  all  pressure  sensations  are 
alike  in  quality.  Regarded  as  pressures,  knee-bump 
and  shin-bump  —  to  say  nothing  of  right  and  left 
knee-bumps  —  are  precisely  the  same.  So  we  must 
look  elsewhere  for  an  explanation. 

We  have  two  facts  to  notice.  The  first  is  that, 
although  skin  and  joint  are  able  to  give  us  space 
perceptions  (their  pressure  sensations  having  the 
attribute  of  extent),  yet,  in  actual  mental  history, 
their  development  as  '  space  organs '  does  not  keep 
anything  like  even  pace  with  the  development  of  the 
eye.  Doubtless  there  are  perceptions  of  space  in 
the  animal  kingdom  before  there  are  eyes ;  but  when 
the  eyes  have  arrived,  they  make  haste  to  take  upon 
themselves  the  burden  of  supplying  these  perceptions. 
The  eye,  then,  is  the  '  space  organ.'  The  second 


§  44-    Perceptions  of  Space:  Position         107 

fact  is  that  primitive  man  must  have  come  into  con- 
scious contact  with  things,  for  the  most  part,  in  the 
daytime ;  in  the  dark  he  would  have  been  sleeping. 
That  is,  he  would  see  what  struck  him,  and  where  it 
struck  him.  —  Putting  these  facts  together,  we  can  is  usually  a 
understand  what  introspection  shows :  that  most  of  y'rseua  plcl 
us  know  where  we  are  pressed  or  struck  by  having 
a  picture  of  the  place  flash  up  in  our  minds,  a  picture 
which  is  very  accurate  at  the  centre,  though  very 
hazy  in  the  surrounding  parts.  We  can  say,  in  the 
dark,  "  I  have  bumped  my  knee !  "  because  a  picture 
of  the  knee  comes  up  at  the  moment  of  the  bump : 
we  can  say,  with  our  eyes  shut,  "You  are  touching 
my  cheek!  "  because  a  picture  of  the  cheek  arises  at 
the  touch.  The  perception  is  a  mixed  perception. 

Not  everybody  has  this  picture,  however.  Those  who  do 
not  have  it  '  place '  the  bump  or  pressure  by  means  of  a 
word.  The  word  '  knee '  or  '  cheek  '  occurs  to  them,  as 
they  are  touched.  They  or  their  ancestors  must  have  gone 
through  the  picture  stage :  but  now  their  mental  constitu- 
tion is  such  that  the  picture  does  not  arise.  The  word, 
originally  used  to  name  the  picture,  has  taken  the  picture's 
place  altogether,  by  one  of  those  mental  '  short  cuts '  of 
which  we  spoke  in  §  41. 

§  44.  Perceptions  of  Space:  Position. — The  percep- 
tion of  an  object  in  space  includes  two  perceptions : 
those  of  place  and  of  distance.  We  have  seen  that 
place  on  the  skin  is  perceived  by  sight :  how,  now,  is 
place  in  the  field  of  vision  perceived  ?  We  see  where 
we  are  touched  :  do  we  see  where  we  see  ? 

Partly  yes,  partly  no.  (a)  If  a  red  patch  be  moved 
over  the  retina,  from  the  centre  outwards,  —  the  eye 


io8  Perception 

Thepercep-    being  kept  steady  during  the  movement,  —  it  will  be 

tion  of '  place 

where1  by  seen  as  red  only  for  a  short  time.  When  it  gets  to  a 
certain  distance  from  the  centre,  it  becomes  a  greyish 
blue  or  yellow ;  and  as  it  travels  still  further,  passes 
over  into  mere  grey.1  Here,  then,  we  have  differences 
of  sensation  quality,  corresponding  to  differences  of 
place  in  the  field  of  vision.  Knowing  that  the  patch 
was  red,  and  seeing  it  bluish,  we  should  know  approxi- 
mately where  it  was :  the  eye  could  see  where  it  saw, 
though  the  skin  (all  pressures  being  alike)  cannot  'feel' 
where  it  '  feels.'  But  (b)  it  is  needful  for  us  to  see 
things,  to  apprehend  qualities,  as  they  are ;  and  we 
therefore  always  move  the  eyes,  so  as  to  bring  the  ob- 
ject upon  the  centre  of  the  retina.  We  do  not  allow  a 
red  to  remain  bluish,  by  remaining  away  from  the  cen- 
tre ;  we  look  directly  at  it.  Now  plainly,  the  more  we 
have  to  move  the  eye  to  get  the  object  to  the  centre, 
the  stronger  will  be  the  pressure  and  strain  sensations 
from  the  muscles  and  tendons  which  turn  the  eye  in  its 
socket.  So  each  '  look  '  of  the  object  gets  welded  to- 
gether with  a  special  group  of  muscle  and  tendon 
sensations ;  and  the  whole  sensation-mass  tells  us 
where  the  object  is.  Partly,  the  eye  sees  where  it 
I  sees,  for  itself  ;  partly,  sensations  of  pressure  and 
strain,  added  to  the  look  of  the  object,  tell  us  where 
the  object  is  in  the  field  of  vision. 

This,  then,  is  the  way  in  which  we  are  able  to 
'  place '  an  object  in  the  field  of  vision.  But  how  do 
we  come  to  see  it  as  a  solid  object  ?  And  how  do  we 
know  its  distance  from  us  ? 

1  This  is  Experiment  6,  p.  52  above. 


§  45-    Perceptions  of  Space :  Bodily  Posture     109 

The    perception   of   solidity  is  the   result   of   our  Thepercep- 
having  two  eyes.     The  eyes  take  two  pictures  of  the  Soi"dity 
object,   from   two  slightly  different   points  of  view. 
These  pictures  are  laid  over  each  other ;  and  their 
combination  into  a  single  picture  results.     But  if  a 
single  picture  is  to  be  formed  from  two  dissimilar 
pictures,   the   object   which    the    picture   represents 
must  appear  solid. 

So  much,  again,  the  eyes  do  for  themselves;  and,  andofdis- 
again,  the  rest  is  done  for  them  by  the  muscles  and 
tendons  around  them.  If  an  object  is  very  near  us, 
we  must  turn  the  eyes  strongly  inwards,  towards 
each  other,  to  see  it.  If  it  is  far  off,  we  can  let  the 
eyes  swing  outwards ;  until,  if  the  object  is  at  the 
horizon,  they  are  both  looking  straight  forward,  par- 
allel with  each  other.  The  nearer  the  object,  then, 
the  greater  is  the  pressure  and  strain  about  the  eye ; 
the  farther  off  the  object,  the  less  this  pressure  and 
strain.  In  every  case  of  our  looking  at  something 
in  space,  a  special  sensation-mass  from  muscle  and 
tendon  appears  to  tell  us  of  the  distance  of  the  thing 
from  us. 

§45.    Perceptions  of   Space:   Todily  Posture. — Our  Bodily  post- 
perception  of  the  posture  or  attitude  of  our  own  body  "efved  visu- 
is,  in  general,  a  perception  of  sight.     We  see  how  we  ally 
are  sitting  or  lying  or  standing.     Even  when  we  are 
in  the  dark,  we  call  up  a  mental  picture  of  ourselves 
to  tell  us  of  our  position ;  and  in  thinking  how  our 
legs  are  disposed  under  the  table,  we  call  up  a  like 
picture  of  the  lower  part  of  the  body. 

At  the  same  time,  sensations  from  skin  and  joint 


HO  Perception 

play  a  very  considerable  part  in  this  perception  of  our 
and tactuaiiy.  own  position.  If  the  soles  of  our  feet  were  rendered 
insensible,  we  should  not  walk  as  confidently  as  we 
do  with  sensations  constantly  coming  in  from  the 
skin  of  ball  and  heel.  If  the  hips  became  insensible 
to  the  weight  of  the  body,  we  should  make  grievous 
mistakes  in  estimating  our  position.  Moreover,  we 
have  seen  (§  18)  that  a  special  sense-organ,  the 
shake-organ  in  the  ear,  is  set  apart  to  give  us  warn- 
ing of  any  loss  of  balance  or  of  command  of  ourselves 
in  space. 

Suppose  that  you  are  lying  full-length,  your  eyes  shut,  on 
a  board  which  can  be  tilted  up  and  down  like  a  seesaw. 
Your  head  is  lowered,  and  you  are  to  call  out  when  you  are 
'standing  on  your  head.'  You  call  out  much  too  soon  :  as 
soon  as  the  weight  of  the  body  begins  to  tell  upon  the 
back  of  the  neck,  jamming  the  vertebrae  together,  you 
think  that  you  are  vertical.  —  Now  you  are  brought  back 
to  the  horizontal ;  you  are  to  call  out  when  you  are  lying 
perfectly  flat.  You  call  too  late ;  not  till  the  weight  gets 
well  off  the  neck,  and  you  '  feel  your  feet,'  do  you  think 
that  you  are  level.  Evidently,  then,  the  distribution  of  the 
weight  of  the  body,  the  jamming  of  some  joints  and  the 
free  play  of  others,  has  something  to  do  with  our  percep- 
tion of  the  posture  of  the  body. 
| 

§  46.    Perceptions  of  Space :  Movement.  —  Movement 
can  be  perceived  in  two  ways :  by  touch  (sensations 
from  skin,  muscle,  tendon  and  joint)  and  by  sight. 
Tactual  per-        (i)  If  we  are  carried   through  space  at   an  even 

ceptionof          t      without  iar,  we    have  no  perception  of   move- 
movement.  ' 

ment.  The  earth  rotates  on  its  axis ;  it  revolves 
round  the  sun ;  it  rushes  forward  with  the  sun  into 
space,  We  'feel'  nothing  of  all  this  movement, 


§  46.    Perceptions  of  Space :  Movement        ill 

because  it  is  quite  even  and  uniform.  So  you  do  not 
know  that  you  are  rising  in  a  balloon,  until  you  look 
over  the  side  of  the  car  and  see  the  trees  and  houses 
getting  smaller  beneath  you ;  you  do  not  '  feel '  the 
motion.  One  may  have  the  same  experience,  of 
ignorance  of  movement,  on  a  sail-boat  or  in  a  well- 
hung  and  rubber-tired  carriage. 

As  soon  as  the  movement  slows  or  quickens,  how- 
ever, we  perceive  it.  When  the  brake  is  put  on  the 
carriage,  you  are  thrown  forward ;  as  the  speed 
increases,  you  are  forced  back  against  the  cushions. 
This  throwing  backward  and  forward  means  a  shift 
of  the  weight  of  your  body,  a  change  in  the  press- 
ures upon  your  skin,  a  stretching  of  certain  muscles 
and  tendons  and  a  tightening  of  others,  a  jamming 
of  this  joint  and  a  pulling-apart  of  that.  The  mass 
of  sensations  thus  aroused  gives  you  the  percep- 
tion of  movement. 

We  can  perceive  the  movement  of  a  single  limb  (arm  or 
leg)  by  the  help  of  joint  sensations  alone.  The  turning  of 
the  joint  in  its  socket  tells  us  both  that  the  limb  is  moving 
and  how  far  it  has  gone.  We  might  be  blind,  and  have  no 
sensations  from  skin,  muscle  or  tendon ;  and  we  should  still 
know  when,  and  how  far,  our  limbs  moved. 

The  sensations  from  skin,  joint,  tendon  and  muscle  that  give 
us  the  perception  of  movement  are  sometimes  called,  for  that 
reason,  motor  sensations.  But  we  do  not  sense  movement, — 
there  is  no  peculiar  movement  organ  ;  we  perceive  it.  Hence  it 
is  best  not  to  use  the  phrase  '  motor  sensations.' 

(2)  The  earliest  perception  of   movement   by  the  visual  per- 
eye  consisted  in  seeing  something  '  in  two  places  at 
once.'     Think  of  the  fall  of  a  shooting  star  down  the 
sky.     The  star  leaves  a  trail  of  light  behind  it  as  it 


112  Perception 

drops ;  so  that  you  see  it,  so  to  speak,  at  the  place 
it  started  from,  and  at  the  place  where  it  disappears, 
all  in  the  same  moment.  Seeing  it  thus,  you  perceive 
that  it  has  moved. 

We  do  not  need  now  to  see  the  moving  object  in 
two  places  at  once;  but  we  must  remember  that  it 
was  in  a  different  place  a  little  while  ago,  if  we  are 
to  perceive  its  movement.  We  '  see '  that  the  train 
moves  across  the  landscape,  because  we  remember 
that  a  second  ago  it  was  at  that  tree,  and  a  second 
before  at  that  other  tree,  and  so  on.  If  the  whole 
landscape  moved,  trees  arid  train  and  all,  —  ourselves 
and  our  standing-ground  included,  —  we  should  not 
perceive  the  movement. 

We  said  just  now  that  the  solar  system  is  rushing  on  into 
space.  We  do  not '  feel '  the  movement,  because  it  is  even 
and  uniform  ;  we  do  not  see  it,  because  everything  is  mov- 
ing :  there  is  no  '  tree  '  from  which  the  movement  starts,  no 
fixed  point  which  we  can  remember  having  passed  so  many 
seconds  or  minutes  or  hours  ago.  Just  as  we  perceive  the 
movement  of  the  body  by  touch  only  when  the  rate  of  move- 
ment changes,  so  we  see  movement  only  when  an  objec^ 
changes  its  position  among  other,  fixed  objects. 

§  47.  Perceptions  of  Time :  Rhythm.  —  All  sensa- 
tions have  the  attribute  of  duration,  of  lasting  a  little 
while ;  so  that  any  class  of  sensations  can  give  rise 
to  perceptions  of  time.  For  the  particular  time-per- 
ception that  we  have  chosen  for  discussion  here, 
however,  —  for  the  perception  of  rhythm,  —  two  sen- 
sation-groups are  of  especial  importance :  the  tactual 
group,  made  up  of  sensations  from  skin,  muscle, 
tendon  and  joint ;  and  the  tactual-auditory  group, 


§  47-    Perceptions  of  Time:  Rhythm         113 

made  up  of  these  sensations  and  of  sensations  of 
hearing. 

(1)  The  four  limbs  are,  so  to  speak,  four  pendu-  Tactual 
lums,  attached  to  the  trunk  of  the  body.     As  we  run 

or  walk,  the  legs  swing  alternately,  and  with  each 
leg  swings  the  arm  of  the  opposite  side.  Here  we 
have  the  basis  of  the  idea  of  rhythm ;  a  strong  sensa- 
tion-mass from  the  leg  whose  foot  rests  upon  the 
ground,  the  leg  that  carries  the  weight  of  the  body, 
followed  at  equal  intervals  by  a  weak  sensation-mass 
from  the  leg  that  swings  through  the  air  before  its 
foot  is  set  down.  As  the  leg  swings,  the  arm 
swings ;  and  at  the  moment  that  the  foot  is  set 
down,  the  arm  pulls  with  its  full  weight  upon  the 
shoulder ;  so  that  the  strong  leg-sensations  are  rein- 
forced by  strong  arm-sensations,  and  the  weak  by 
weak.  The  rhythm  is  thus  still  further  accented. 

(2)  This  movement-rhythm,  as  we  may  call  it,  —  Tactuai- 
the  alternation  of  strong  and  weak  sensation-masses 

from  some  moving  part  of  the  body,  arm  or  hand  or 
foot,  —  plays  a  part  in  every  perception  of  rhythm. 
But  pure  movement-rhythm  has  not  been  nearly  so 
highly  developed  as  the  compound  rhythm  of  move- 
ment and  hearing.  The  reason  is  that  the  limbs  are 
fixed  to  the  body ;  they  can  do  no  more  than  oscillate, 
to  and  fro,  up  and  down ;  while  sounds  are  free,  not 
attached  to  anything,  and  so  can  be  divided  up  into 
rhythmical  groups  at  pleasure.  Movement  can  give 
us  nothing  but  one-two  rhythms ;  sound  and  move- 
ment together  give  us  the  one-two-three  rhythms  of 
music  and  dancing. 

We  are  so  accustomed  to  regard  rhythm  as  something  to 


1  14 


Perception 


Perception 


world. 


hear  that  the  reader  may  never  have  thought  of  walking  or 
running  as  a  movement-rhythm  (flress-swing,  /ra\r-swing)  , 
but  only  as  a  hearing  rhythm  (/ra*«/-tramp,  /ramp-tramp). 
But  close  your  ears  with  cotton-  wool  and  walk  across  the 
room,  letting  your  arms  swing  naturally  with  the  movement 
of  the  legs.  You  can  easily  get  into  the  movement-rhythm  : 
0ne-a.nd  one-a.nd  one.  Notice  the  strong  jerk  or  pull  of  the 
heavy  arm  at  each  one,  i.e.,  at  each  pressure  of  a  foot  upon 
the  floor. 

When  next  you  listen  to  music,  notice  that  you  '  keep 
time  '  not  by  the  ear  only,  but  by  some  movement  (of  head, 
finger,  etc.)  as  well. 

§  48.  What  Perception  Means.  —  We  cannot  here 
discuss  more  of  the  perceptions  that  fall  under  the 
three  heads  of  quality,  space  and  time  ;  the  examples 
chosen  must  suffice.  These  few  instances,  however, 
are  enough  to  show  the  reader  what  the  value  of  per- 
ception is,  and  what  'perceiving'  means  to  us. 

Plainly,  perception  means  a  breaking-up  of  the 
wor^  around  us.  To  the  primitive  animal  and  to 
the  human  infant  the  world  must  be,  in  Professor 
James'  language,  "  one  big  blooming  buzzing  Confu- 
sion." As  the  sense-organs  grow,  as  the  channels 
through  which  the  world  gains  entry  into  mind  be- 
come more  numerous  and  more  complicated,  this 
Confusion  is  broken  up  into  parts  :  quality  parts, 
space  parts,  time  parts.  Mind  is  never  fully  able  to 
cope  with  the  world  :  there  are  stars  that  our  best 
telescopes  cannot  find,  and  animal  structures  too  deli- 
cate for  our  finest  microscopes  to  reveal.  But  the 
farther  perception  goes,  the  more  concrete  processes 
we  have  that  mean  different  parts  or  aspects  of  the 
material  universe,  the  better  do  we  understand  the 


§  49-    Illusions  of  Perception  1 1 5 

world.  With  perception  comes  knowledge  :  without 
perception  we  should  be  without  science.  Just  as 
the  course  of  animal  evolution  runs  from  creatures 
made  up  of  a  single  sort  of  tissue  to  creatures  of  many 
tissues,  —  blood  and  nerves  and  muscles  and  bone 
and  the  rest,  —  so  does  mental  evolution  run  from  the 
confused  one-tissue  knowledge  of  the  infant  to  the 
many-sided,  differentiated  knowledge  of  the  scientific 
man.  We  saw  in  §  41  that  perception  itself  under- 
goes transformation  and  development;  but  no  one 
of  the  three  steps  there  mentioned  is  so  important  as 
the  first  step  of  all,  —  the  step  from  the  single  world 
of  confusion  to  the  ordered  world  of  perception. 

§  49.  Illusions  of  Perception.  —  Mind,  however,  is  illusory  p« 
not  wholly  adequate  to  the  world ;  we  do  not  always 
perceive  aright.  For  one  thing,  the  sense-organs  are 
not  always  equal  to  the  demands  laid  upon  them : 
a  bird  may  be  'too  far  off  to  be  seen,'  and  yet  it 
would  be  wrong  to  say  that  there  is  no  bird  in  the 
sky.  For  another,  we  are  biassed  in  our  outlook 
over  nature ;  our  nervous  tendencies,  which  lead  us 
to  apperceive  objects  rather  than  to  perceive  them, 
are  likely  to  lead  us  astray,  to  make  us  see  what  is 
not  there,  or  to  fail  in  seeing  what  is.  So  there  arise 
what  are  called  illusions,  perceptions  in  which  the 
world  is  '  playing  with  '  us  (Lat.  Indus,  game)  instead 
of  telling  us  the  truth  about  itself. 

The  most  important  and  most  instructive  illusions 
are  those  of  space  perception,  in  its  various  forms. 

Illusions  of  Form,  —  Draw  a  perfect  square.    Notice  that   of  form, 
it  looks   higher  than  it  is  broad.     The  reason  is  that  the 


1 1 6  Perception 

muscles  around  the  eyes  can  move  them  out  and  in  more 
easily  than  they  can  move  them  up  and  down.  Since  it 
requires  more  effort  to  look  up  and  down  the  square  than 
to  look  across  it,  the  distance  up  and  down  is  taken  to  be 
greater. 

Draw  a  number  of  '  squares  '  which  are  a  little  lower  than 
they  are  broad.  Note  which  of  them  looks  to  be  exactly 
right,  a  real  square.  Measure  the  height  and  subtract  it 
from  the  breadth.  The  result  gives  you  the  amount  of  the 
illusion. 

of  size,  Illusions  of  Size.  —  It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  if  a  thing  be 

estimated  by  touch  (that  is,  by  the  skin  with  the  assistance 
of  muscle,  tendon  and  joint)  it  seems  to  be  larger  than  it 
does  to  the  eye ;  whereas,  if  it  be  estimated  by  the  skin 
alone,  it  seems  smaller  than  it  does  to  sight.  Thus  a  hollow 
tooth  '  feels '  much  larger,  both  to  tongue  and  finger,  than  it 
looks  in  the  mirror.  Since  we  have  learned  to  trust  our 
eyes,  we  regard  the  tactual  perception  as  illusory. 

We  read,  however,  that  men  born  blind,  and  restored  to 
sight  by  a  surgical  operation,  are  surprised  at  the  largeness 
of  the  objects  about  them.  This  does  not  mean,  as  it  might 
seem  to  do,  that  tactual  space  is  smaller  than  the  space  of 
sight.  The  things  seen  appear  to  the  patient  to  press  in 
upon  him,  he  remaining  passive ;  just  as  solid  bodies  press 
down  upon  the  passive  skin.  It  is  skin-space,  then,  that  he 
compares  with  the  space  of  sight :  and  it  is  this  skin-space, 
not  tactual  space,  that  seems  to  him  to  be  smaller  than  the 
sight-space. 

The  facts  mean,  evidently,  that  we  live  in  three  distinct 
spaces  :  skin-space,  touch-space  and  eye-space.  The  three 
do  not  altogether  agree :  there  is  no  real  reason  why  they 
should,  since  the  organs  are  different.  We  have  learned 
always  to  believe  the  eye,  however,  and  so  look  upon  the 
skin-size  and  touch-size  of  things  as  illusory.  — 

An  illusion  of  size  is  given  in  Fig.  u.  The  vertical  line 
looks  longer  in  the  upper  figure  than  in  the  lower.  This  is 
because  the  eyes  are  tempted  to  run  on,  beyond  the  vertical, 


§  49-   Illusions  of  Perception 


117 


V 


in  the  one  case ;  while  they  are  checked,  held  back,  at  the 
ends  of  the  vertical  in  the  other. 

Illusions  of  Direction.  —  The  laws  of  perspective  are  largely  of  direction, 
based  upon  illusions  of  direction.  Look  out  along 
a  railway  track :  the  lines  seem  to  meet  at  the 
horizon,  though  you  know  that  they  do  not. 
Look  at  your  table,  from  one  corner  of  the  room : 
it  seems  to  be  a  trapezoid,  though  you  know  that 
it  is  a  parallelogram.  The  seen  direction  of  the 
lines  is  illusory. 

These  illusions  are  all  illusions  of  the  first  class ; 
due  to  the  inability  of  the  sense-organs  to  meet 
the  requirements  laid  upon  them.  Apperceptive 
illusions  are  equally  common.  Thus  if  we  are 
walking  after  a  shower  on  a  moonlight  evening,  we 
may  take  the  shadow  of  a  tree-trunk  for  a  runnel 
of  water,  and  step  over  it.  Our  mind  is  full  of 
ideas  of  wetness.  —  Or  in  traversing  a  lonely  spot 
at  night-time  we  may  see  a  ghost,  which  proves  on 
nearer  examination  to  be  a  white  birch-trunk  or 
a  white  post.  Our  mind  is  full  of  ghost-stories. 

—  Cf.  ff.,  Lesson  X. 

In  all  cases  of  space  illusion,  the  final  appeal  is  to  The  final 
the  eye.  Not  to  the  unassisted  eye ;  for  that  is  itself 
subject  to  illusion :  but  to  the  measuring  eye,  —  the 
eye  armed  with  a  ruler  and  a  pair  of  compasses. 
What  touch  and  sight  tell  us  of  the  world  of  space 
may,  as  we  have  learned  by  experience,  be  very  far 
from  right.  What  sight  tells  us  under  the  conditions 
of  measurement  we  believe  to  be  true ;  the  railway 
lines  are  parallel,  the  table  is  a  parallelogram,  the 
verticals  of  Fig.  1 1  are  equal,  the  square  is  equilateral, 

—  in    spite  of   all   appearances   to   the   contrary,  — 
because  the  measuring  eye  tells  us  so.     Measured  or 
mathematical  'seeing'  is  always  'believing.' 


A 

V 


FIG.  ii 


1 1 8  Perception 


Questions  and  Exercises 

(1)  Qualitative  Perceptions. 

1.  The  middle  c  of  the  piano  contains,  as  overtones,  the  c 

and  g  of  the  next  higher  octave,  and  the  c,  e  and  g  of 
the  octave  above  that.  Strike  some  one  of  these  over- 
tones softly,  by  itself.  Then  strike  the  middle  c  loudly, 
and  try  to  hear  in  it  the  overtone  which  you  sounded  a 
moment  before.  If  you  think  you  can,  sing  the  over- 
tone, and  then  strike  the  note  to  make  sure  that  you 
have  it  correctly. 

2.  Have  a  number  of  chords  struck  on  the  piano  :  chords  of 

two,  three,  four  notes,  in  random  order.  After  a  chord 
has  been  struck,  ask  yourself  how  many  notes  it  con- 
tained. Continue  the  practice  until  you  can  distinguish 
accurately  a  two-chord  from  a  three-chord,  etc. 

3.  Try,  by  introspection,  to  find  out  what  sensations  are 

contained  in  the  following  perceptions  :  hardness,  wet- 
ness, roughness,  the  '  taste '  of  tea,  the ;  taste '  of  lemon- 
ade. Make  several  trials  of  the  perceptions  themselves, 
and  then  introspect  them. 

(2)  Spatial  Perceptions. 

4.  Have  yourself  touched,  while  your  eyes  are  closed,  at 

various  parts  of  the  body.  How  do  you  know  where 
you  are  touched?  Introspect  very  carefully. 

5.  If  you  were  touched  on  the  wrist  and  on  the  chest,  and 

tried  (with  your  eyes  shut)  to  re-touch  the  places 
struck,  you  would  get  more  nearly  right  on  the  wrist 
than  you  would  on  the  chest.  Why? 

6.  Close  your  eyes.     Let  the  experimenter  take  a  pair  of 

blunt-pointed  drawing  compasses,  and  set  the  points 
down  evenly  upon  your  wrist,  crosswise.  If  the  points 
are  near  together,  you  will  '  feel '  only  one  pressure  ;  if 
they  are  a  certain  distance  apart,  two  pressures.  The 
experimenter  must  alter  the  distance  between  the  points, 
little  by  little  ;  in  one  series  beginning  with  a  distance 
that  clearly  gives  one,  and  in  a  second  series  with  a 
distance  that  clearly  gives  two  pressures  ;  until  he  finds 
the  distance  at  which  oneness  passes  over  into  twoness. 
This  distance,  averaged  from  the  two  series,  gives  a 


Questions  and  Exercises  . 


119 


8. 


measure  of  your  ability  to  distinguish  places  upon  the 
skin.  —  Compare  the  wrist  distance  with  similar  dis- 
tances upon  the  forehead, 
cheek,  and  back  of  the  neck. 
What  conclusions  do  you 
draw  from  the  difference 
between  the  distances? 

Combine  a  number  of  double 
pictures  in  the  stereoscope. 
Note  carefully  how  the  pict- 
ures on  the  two  halves  of 
the  slide  differ.  When  you 
have  grown  used  to  the  in- 
strument, try  to  combine 
simple  pictures  (the  common 
outline  drawings  of  truncated 
cones  or  pyramids)  by  the 
unaided  eye.  Look  straight 
through  the  slide,  towards  a 
point  beyond  it ;  and  move 
the  slide  back  and  forth, 
until  the  pictures  coalesce.  It  is  a  good  plan  to  prac- 
tise  this  'free  stereoscopy1  with  transparent  (celluloid) 
slides ;  the  drawings  you  can  easily  make  for  your- 
self in  ink. 

T/te  Stereoscope  (Fig.  12).  —  Light  is  reflected  to  the 
eyes,  along  the  dotted  lines,  from  the  two  pictures,  a,  b. 
The  reflected  rays  are  so  refracted  by  the  prisms,  c,  d, 
that  they  appear  to  come  from  a  single  point,  e,  lying 
on  the  far  side  of  a,  b.  Hence  we  see  at  e  a  single 
picture,  formed  by  the  superposition  of  the  two  pict- 
ures, a  and  b. 

Put  one  of  the  photographic  slips  in  the  drum  of  the 
stroboscope  and  twirl  it  swiftly,  so  that  you  can  get 
the  illusion  of  movement.  Then  begin  again,  moving 
the  drum  at  first  very  slowly,  and  later  on  more 
quickly ;  so  that  you  build  up  the  illusion  in  stages. 
Notice  each  stage.  —  Explain  the  illusion  (cf.  Experi- 
ment 5,  p.  51  above). 

The  Stroboscope  (Fig.  13).  —  A  cardboard  drum,  «, 
open  above,  can  be  twirled  upon  the  handle,  b.  The 


FIG.  12 


I2O 


Perception 


b 
FIG.  13 


upper  half  of  the  wall  of  the  drum  is  pierced  at  regular 
intervals  by  vertical  slits.  The  lower  half  is  covered, 
on  the  inside,  by  a  slip  of  paper  upon  which  the  sepa- 
rate phases  of  some  movement  (the  flight  of  a  bird,  the 

gallop  of  a  horse) ______ 

have  been  drawn 
or  photographed. 
As  the  drum  turns, 
one  looks  down, 
through  the  slits 
upon  the  inserted 
slip. 

9.  Aristotle  suggested 
the  following  way 
of  proving  that  the 
final  appeal  in  space 
matters  is  to  the 
eye.  Cross  the 
second  over  the 
first  finger  of  your  right  hand.  Place  a  pencil 
between  the  crossed  joints.  Since,  under  natural 
conditions,  the  outsides  of  the  first  and  second  fingers 
never  touch  the  same  object,  the  skin  tells  you  that 
two  objects  are  now  in  contact  with  it.  The  eye 
contradicts  the  skin ;  and  so  strong  is  the  contradic- 
tion that  you  do  not  even  '  feel '  the  pencil  as  two 
objects  while  your  eyes  are  open. 

Now  shut  your  eyes,  and  let  the  experimenter  put 
either  one  thing  or  two  things  between  your  crossed 
fingers,  as  he  chooses.  Not  knowing  whether  you 
are  'feeling'  one  thing  or  two,  you  cannot  appeal  to 
a  mental  picture.  The  result  is  that  the  skin  has  its 
own  way,  and  you  soon  '  feel '  two  objects  in  every 
experiment,  whether  one  or  two  be  really  between 
your  fingers. 

N.  B.  —  This  account  of  Aristotle's  experiment 
holds  only  for  those  to  whom  the  experiment  is 
new.  If  you  have  practised  it  as  a  child,  you  will 
get  the  twoness  of  the  pencil  at  once  whether  your 
eyes  are  open  or  not. 
10.  Draw  two  semicircles,  of  i  cm.  radius,  in  the  posi- 


Questions  and  Exercises  12 1 

tion  £  £.  Draw  the  diameter  to  the  left-hand  curve. 
This  seems  now  to  include  less  space  than  the  other, 
open  semicircle.  Why? 

11.  It  is  very  important  to  realise  the  difference  between 

touch-space  and  skin-space.  Take  a  piece  of  stiff 
card,  with  a  smooth  edge  of  12  cm.  Cut  pointed 
teeth  along  the  edge.  Estimate  the  length  of  the 
jagged  edge,  with  closed  eyes,  (i)  by  passing  the 
finger  along  the  points  (touch),  and  (2)  by  having 
the  teeth  pressed  down  upon  the  skin  of  your  fore- 
arm (pressure).  You  will  think  that  the  card  is 
longer  than  it  looks  to  be,  in  the  first  case,  and 
shorter  than  it  looks  to  be,  in  the  second. 

(3)  Temporal  Perception. 

12.  Shut  your  eyes,  and  hold  a  watch  to  your  ear.     See 

how  many  rhythms  you  can  throw  the  ticks  into. 
Write  down  the  forms  and  accents  of  the  rhythms. 

13.  Close  your  eyes.     Let  the  experimenter  draw  a  pencil, 

at  an  even  rate,  from  your  elbow  to  the  tip  of  the 
middle  finger.  The  pencil  seems  to  travel  more 
quickly  at  some  places  than  at  others.  Draw  a  fig- 
ure of  the  arm,  and  mark  in  the  places  of  apparent 
slowing  and  quickening.  Explain  by  reference  to 
Exp.  n,  p.  54. 

14.  Is  a  purely  visual  rhythm  possible  ?     Is  there  any  other 

well-marked  tactual  (one-two)  rhythm,  besides  that 
of  the  limbs? 

(4)  Why  is  the  mixed  perception  termed  an  'assimilation'? 

(5)  If  sensations  of  taste  and  of  temperature  have  not  the  attri- 

bute of  extent,  how  do  you  explain  their  apparent  extensity  ? 

(6)  It  is   said   above,  §  42,  that   qualitative   perceptions   have 

undergone  less  change  than  those  of  space  and  time. 
What  change  have  they  undergone?  How  is  it  that  this 
change  has  not  deprived  them  of  their  value? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  chs.  xx.,  xxi.  Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  ch. 
viii.  Titchener,  Outline,  §§43-51.  Wundt,  Lects.,  VIII.- 
XIII.;  Outlines,  §§  8-n  ;  Geom.-opt.  Tauschungen,  1898. 
See  also:  Th.  Lipps,  Raumaesthetik,  1897;  Sanford,  Course, 
esp.  pp.  212  ff. 


CHAPTER  VII 
IDEA  AND  THE  ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS 

idea  as  §5°.   The  Development  of  Ideas.  —  The  ideas  of  the 

o^percep-10"  primitive  mind  are,  as  it  were,  photographic  copies, 
tion.  life-likenesses,  of   the  perceptions  which  go  before 

them.  Thus  the  idea  of  a  landscape  would  be  in 
part  a  picture-idea,  the  look  of  stream  and  hills  and 
trees;  in  part  a  sound-idea,  the  idea  of  splashing 
water  and  rustling  boughs ;  in  part  a  tactual  idea, 
the  '  feel '  of  springing  grass  and  moving  wind ;  in 
part  a  smell-idea,  a  remembered  freshness  and  fra- 
grance of  air  and  flowers.  The  life-likeness  is,  of 
course,  never  perfect :  the  idea  is  weaker,  passes  by 
more  quickly,  and  is  more  sketchy,  than  the  percep- 
tion that  corresponds  to  it :  but  the  qualities  of  the 
perception  are  found  again  in  the  idea.  Produced  in 
perception,  they  are  reproduced  in  idea. 

idea  as  This,  however,  is  only  the  first  stage  in  the  devel- 

opment  of  the  idea.  The  brain-cortex  has  in  most 
cases  a  tendency  to  work  more  easily  at  one  part 
than  at  another.  Or  —  to  speak  in  terms  of  mental 
constitution  —  minds  are  so  constituted  that  their 
processes  run  more  easily  along  certain  channels 
than  along  others.  Hence  it  happens  that  those 
elements  in  a  perception  which  do  not  fit  in  with 
our  mental  constitution  are  very  soon  dropped  out 
of  the  idea;  the  idea  is  a  copy  or  life-likeness  of  only 
a  part  of  the  perception.  And  further,  if  the  nervous 

122 


§  51.    The  Four  Chief  Memory-types         123 

tendencies  are  strongly  marked,  ideas  may  cease  to 
be  even  partial  copies  of  perceptions.  Just  as  we 
translate  words  and  sentences  from  one  language 
into  another,  so  may  the  nervous  system  translate 
a  perception  into  more  familiar  terms,  —  into  an  idea 
which  has  none  of  the  qualities  that  were  contained 
in  the  perception,  but  replaces  them  by  other  and 
more  familiar  qualities  that  mean  the  same  thing. 

We  describe  the  differences  between  minds  whose  Memory- 
ideas  are  still  at  least  partial  copies  of  perceptions  types 
by  saying  that  they  show  differences  of  memory-type. 
Such  minds  have  a  preference,  so  to  speak,  for  a  par- 
ticular kind  or  type  of  idea :  for  picture-ideas,  sound- 
ideas,  etc.     Minds  of  the  second  order,  those  whose 
ideas  are  translations  out  of  the  language  of  percep- 
tion into  an  entirely  different  language,  belong  for 
the  most  part  to  one  or  other  of  the  verbal  sub-types,   and  sub- 
For  the  language  into  which  their  perceptions  are 
translated   is  nearly  always  a  language  of   words; 
their  ideas  are  word-ideas,  no  matter  what  the  per- 
ceptions may  have  been. 

We  have  now  to  examine  these  types  and  sub- 
types, in  order  to  see  what  the  ideas  are  that  make 
up  the  individual  consciousness  in  each  case. 

§  51.  The  Four  Chief  Memory-types.  —  The  two 
most  highly  developed  senses  are  those  of  sight 
and  hearing.  It  is  natural,  then,  that  there  should 
be  minds  which  are  almost  wholly  eye-minds  or  ear- 
minds  :  eye  and  ear  furnish  so  many  differences  of 
sensation  quality  that  they  are  able  of  themselves  to 
represent  a  great  many  aspects  of  the  physical  world, 
without  calling  in  help  from  the  other  sense-organs. 


124  Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 


Auditory 
type- 


Visual  type,  (i)  If  a  mind  is  of  the  visual  or  eye  type,  all  its 
thoughts  and  memories  and  imaginations  will  consist 
of  ideas  of  sight.  If,  e.g.,  an  operatic  performance 
is  recalled,  the  scenes  will  be  pictured,  and  the  dress 
and  movement  of  the  performers  seen  over  again  ; 
but  the  music  will  not  be  remembered.  The  sound- 
parts  of  the  perception  have  dropped  out,  and  only 
the  sight-parts  are  left.  The  mind  of  the  inventor 
is  likely  -to  be  predominantly  of  this  type :  he  sees 
the  machine  that  he  is  designing,  in  the  mind's  eye, 
before  it  has  been  built.  (2)  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
a  mind  is  of  the  auditory  or  ear  type,  its  memories 
will  be  memories  of  things  heard,  and  not  of  things 
seen.  Stage  and  performers  will  be  forgotten,  and 
only  the  music  remembered.  Friends  will  be  thought 
of  not  as  pictures,  figures  of  a  certain  appearance 
clothed  in  a  certain  way,  but  as  sounds,  as  voices  or 
footsteps.  The  minds  of  orators  and  of  musical  com- 
posers may  be  of  this  type.  Every  one  knows  the 
story  of  the  deaf  Beethoven's  playing,  the  tears  roll- 
ing down  his  cheeks  as  he  heard  in  idea  what  he 
could  not  hear  in  outward  perception.  And  it  is 
most  useful  to  the  public  speaker  to  be  able  to  hear 
his  coming  sentences,  with  their  right  ring  and  em- 
phasis upon  them,  before  he  actually  delivers  them 
to  his  audience. 

Tactual  type.  (3)  There  is  another  group  of  perceptions,  —  not 
so  rich  in  sensation  qualities  as  the  perceptions  of 
sight  and  hearing,  but  still  of  great  importance  for 
our  knowledge  of  the  external  world,  —  which  fur- 
nishes  a  third  memory-type :  the  tactual  or  (as  it  is 
less  well  called  :  §  46)  motor  type.  Tactual  percep- 


§  51-    The  Four  Chief  Memory-types          125 

tions  are  made  up  of  the  sensation  qualities  that 
come  to  us  from  skin,  muscle,  tendon  and  joint:  they 
are  perceptions  of  hardness  and  softness,  roughness 
and  smoothness,  resistance  and  effort,  movement  or 
position  of  the  limbs,  etc.  It  is  plain,  however,  that 
useful  as  tactual  ideas  (life-likenesses  of  tactual  per- 
ceptions) may  be,  a  mind  made  up  of  them  and  of 
them  alone  will  be  very  much  at  fault  in  its  thoughts 
and  memories.  True,  it  will  be  useful  for  the  inventor 
to  have  the  power  of  '  feeling '  in  himself  the  pulls 
and  stresses  and  strains  to  which  the  various  parts  of 
his  machine  must  be  subject;  but  he  will  hardly  be 
able  to  design  the  machine  unless  he  can  see  it  as 
well  as  '  feel '  it.  So  the  orator  may  '  feel '  his  com- 
ing sentences ;  but  he  will  hear  them  too.  Indeed,  a 
mind  dominated  by  tactual  ideas,  the  pure  tactual 
type,  is  rare.  Either  it  reduces  to  the  verbal  sub-type 
(§  52),  or  it  is  one  of  the  types  represented  in  the 
mixed  type  which  we  now  pass  to  consider. 

Cooks  and  confectioners  are  employing  a  pure  tactual  memory 
when  they  judge  by  stirring  that  a  dough  or  batter  has  attained 
the  right  consistency.  But  this  mode  of  judgment  is  confined  to 
a  few  special  cases.  Even  when  one  picks  out  chords  or  airs  on 
the  piano  by  finger-memory,  one  is  always  guided,  to  some  ex- 
tent, by  hearing ;  the  tactual  memory  is  mixed  with  auditory. 
This,  however,  does  not  detract  from  the  value  of  the  tactual 
memory ;  it  is,  as  every  player  knows,  of  great  importance  to  the 
pianist. 

(4)  The  last  of  the  four  chief  memory-types  is  the  Mixed  type. 
mixed  type.  When  a  mind  is  of  this  constitution, 
the  sensation  tendencies  of  the  nervous  system  are 
more  or  less  evenly  balanced.  The  operatic  perform- 
ance is  remembered  in  all  three  ways,  as  something 
seen,  as  something  heard,  and  as  something  'felt ' ; 


1 26          Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 

stage  and  performers  are  visible  once  more,  voice 
and  orchestra  are  heard  again,  and  the  ease  or  diffi- 
culty with  which  the  singers  reached  their  high  and 
low  notes  is  sympathetically  revived  in  one's  own 
throat  muscles.  This  is  the  most  useful  memory- 
type,  simply  because  it  gives  the  most  complete 
account  of  the  outside  world,  because  it  reproduces 
the  event  thought  of  under  the  greatest  variety  of 
aspects.  But  an  equal  balance  of  tendencies  is  rare : 
even  when  a  mind  is  to  be  classed  as  '  mixed  '  in  type, 
experiment  generally  shows  that  some  one  side  of  it 
(the  eye-side,  ear-side,  etc.)  is  more  strongly  devel- 
oped than  the  others. 

importance         §  52.   The  Three  Verbal  Sub-types.  —  We  said  just 
ideas*  now  ^-na^  worc^s  offer  a  common  language  into  which 

all  ideas,  no  matter  what  their  perceptions  are  com- 
posed of,  may  be  translated.  Changing  the  metaphor, 
we  may  say  that  words  are  the  common  denominator 
of  all  ideas  or  perceptions,  —  something  in  which 
they  may  all  be  expressed. 

Every  adult  mind  is  made  up,  to  a  considerable 
extent,  of  word-ideas.  We  are  born  into  an  atmo- 
sphere of  words  ;  we  are  talked  to  from  our  earliest 
infancy ;  we  learn  to  talk  in  the  second  year  of  our 
life.  An  intelligent  child  of  two  years  may  have  a 
vocabulary  of  300  or  400  words  ;  it  is  on  record  that 
an  intelligent  child  of  six  may  have  a  vocabulary  of 
2,000.  And  there  is  no  experience,  however  uncom- 
mon or  overpowering  its  incidents,  which  cannot  be 
expressed  in  words. 

The  word-idea  has  three  forms :   visual,  auditory 


§  52.    The   Three    Verbal  Sub-types  127 

and  tactual.     It  may  be  the  idea  of  the  word  seen,  in  Verbal  sub- 
print  or  in    manuscript;    or  the   idea  of   the   word  5" 


heard,  whether  in  one's  own  voice  or  in  that  of  tactuaL 
another;  or  the  idea  of  the  word  'felt,'  whether  in 
speaking  (felt  in  the  muscles  of  the  throat)  or  in  writ- 
ing (felt  in  the  muscles  of  the  hand)  .  The  ideas  of 
an  eye-mind  will,  naturally,  pass  most  readily  into  the 
visual  word  form  ;  those  of  an  ear-mind  into  the  audi- 
tory word  form  ;  and  those  of  the  tactual  mind  into 
one  of  the  tactual  word  forms.  Thus  the  recollection 
of  the  operatic  performance,  in  a  word-mind,  might 
be  a  printed  account  of  the  music  and  acting  (verbal- 
visual  ideas)  ;  or  the  sound  of  a  voice  describing  the 
performance  (verbal-auditory  ideas)  ;  or  the  '  feel  '  of 
the  same  voice  in  the  throat  (verbal-tactual  or  verbal- 
motor  ideas)  . 

We  take  our  own  way  of  thinking  so  much  as  a  matter  of 
course,  that  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  realise  how  many  different 
ways  there  are  of  thinking  the  same  thing.  Hence  while  some 
part  of  the  two  last  Sections  will  come  familiarly  to  every  reader, 
there  will  doubtless  be  other  parts  which,  at  first  sight,  seem 
almost  incomprehensible.  A  little  cross-questioning  of  friends, 
however,  will  probably  bring  all  the  types  and  sub-types  to 
light. 

At  the  same  time,  it  is  hardly  probable  that  we  ever  get,  in 
normal  cases,  a  perfectly  pure  type  or  sub-type.  The  verbal- 
tactual  occurs,  perhaps,  most  frequently  in  comparatively  pure 
form.  The  others  are  always  '  mixed  '  to  some  degree.  Thus 
the  verbal-auditory  is  usually  verbal-tactual  as  well  ;  and  the 
verbal-visual  generally  has  a  trace  of  the  verbal-auditory,  and  so 
of  the  verbal-tactual.  The  four  main  types  are,  then,  ideal  types 
only  :  what  happens  is  that  some  minds  incline  strongly  towards 
eye  or  ear  or  touch  memory,  and  others  as  strongly  to  a  balance 
of  the  partial  memories.  This  complexity  of  mental  constitution 
is  easily  understood,  when  we  remember  the  great  complexity  of 
the  nervous  system,  and  the  large  number  of  sense-channels 
through  which  the  outside  world  gains  access  to  consciousness. 


128 


Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 


Reproduc- 
tion of  smells 
and  tastes 
is  rare. 


Organic 
type. 


§53.  The  Minor  Memory-types. — The  ideas  of 
taste  and  smell  are  very  seldom  copies  of  their  per- 
ceptions. In  the  life  of  primitive  man,  taste  and 
smell  have  an  important  function  to  discharge  (§  20); 
and  even  to-day  their  sensations  and  perceptions 
affect  us  strongly  (§  25).  But  as  civilisation  advances, 
we  depend  less  and  less  upon  them  and  more  and 
more  upon  verbal  knowledge, — upon  what  we  read 
in  books  on  diet,  or  upon  what  our  physician  tells  us. 
Hence  life-likenesses  of  taste  and  smell  qualities  are 
not  included,  as  a  rule,  in  our  stock  of  ideas. 

Try  to  recall  the  scent  of  a  rose.  You  have,  probably,  a 
picture-idea  of  the  flower,  and  a  tactual  idea  of  the  contrac- 
tion of  the  nostrils  in  sniffing.  Perhaps  you  actually  do 
sniff;  so  that  you  perceive  this  contraction,  and  get  sensa- 
tions of  pressure  and  temperature  from  the  air  inhaled. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  word  '  rose '  comes  to  mind,  either  alone 
or  combined  with  some  other  word  that  suggests  the  rose 
scent,  — '  attar '  or  '  essence  '  or  '  perfume.1  But  the  scent 
itself  is,  in  all  probability,  not  present  in  the  idea. 

It  is  possible  that,  with  continued  practice,  the  power  of  im- 
aging scents  could  be  regained  Oftentimes  on  entering  a 
room  we  have  an  illusion  of  smell :  we  say,  "  Don't  I  smell 
sandalwood?"  or  "  heliotrope  "  or  what  not.  This  fact  seems  to 
show  that  scents  are,  even  now,  occasionally  recalled  as  true 
smell-ideas,  life-likenesses  cf  perceptions.  For  the  most  part, 
however,  the  power  is  unemployed,  if  not  lost. 

We  can  hardly  speak,  then,  of  a  smell-type  or  a 
taste-type.  On  the  other  hand,  the  organic  type  is 
of  some  importance.  There  are  people  who,  in  re- 
calling an  event  of  their  past  experience,  revive  or 
repeat  the  internal  bodily  attitude  in  which  they  met 
the  event.  It  is  not  that  they  set  to  work  deliber- 
ately to  reproduce  the  '  sinking  of  the  stomach  '  and 


§  53-    The  Minor  Memory-types 


129 


heart-beat  and  internal  tremors  and  quiverings  which 
accompanied  the  "original  experience ;  but  rather  that, 
when  they  recall  this  experience  in  the  form  most 
natural  to  them, — visual,  auditory,  etc.,  —  the  inter- 
nal or  organic  sensations  come  up  '  of  themselves,' 
in  perception,  along  with  the  pictures  or  sounds  that 
stand  for  the  experience  in  idea. 

We  saw  in  §  25  that  the  organic  sensations  enter  with  Signs  of 
quite  especial  readiness  into  feelings ;  i.e.,  have  an  especial  c 
power  of  attracting  the  attention.  This  trait  is  clearly 
shown  in  the  memories  of  the  organic  type.  If  a  man  is 
greatly  moved  when  he  recounts  an  experience  of  many 
years  ago,  —  becoming  angry  now  as  he  was  then,  grieving 
now  as  he  grieved  then,  etc.,  —  you  may  be  sure  that  he 
has  an  organic  memory,  whatever  his  principal  type  may 
be.  His  anger  or  grief  fastens  itself  to  the  revived  internal 
sensations.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  tells  you  of  his  past 
griefs  and  angers  calmly  and  coolly,  you  may  be  sure  that 
there  is  no  revival  of  the  inward  stir-up  which  took  place 
when  they  were  originally  felt ;  there  is  no  organic  memory. 

Since  organic  memory  shows  itself  in  a  feeling,  it  has  been   '  Affective 
supposed  by  some  psychologists   that   the   feeling-side   of  the    memory.' 
original  experience  is  remembered,  and  that  we  should   speak 
not  of  organic,  but  of  affective  memory.     We  have  seen,  how- 
ever, that  it  is  impossible  to  attend  to  an  affection  (§  33)  ;  and 
since  we  are  attentive  when  we  are  trying  to  remember,  it  is 
plain  that  we  cannot  recall  an  affection.     The  affection  comes 
with  the  organic  sensations  that  make  up  the  ;  internal  bodily 
attitude.' 

It  is  not  perfectly  correct,  either,  to  speak  of  organic  No  true 

memory.      For  the  organic  sensations  are  not  recalled  in  f 

memory. 

idea ;  they  are  revived,  actually  set  up  again  in  the  body, 
when  the  memory  pictures  or  sounds  come  to  mind.  Still, 
they  colour  the  memory ;  it  is  very  different  with  them  from 
what  it  would  be  without  them.  Hence  we  may  give  or- 
ganic memory  rank  as  a  secondary  or  minor  type,  though  it 


130  Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 

cannot  be  counted  with  the  four  chief  types  of  §  51.  The 
organic  sensations  come  up  in  accordance  with  the  law  of 
the  association  of  ideas,  of  which  we  have  now  to  speak. 

§  54.  The  Association  of  Ideas.  —  Sensations  are 
welded  together,  at  the  bidding  of  nature,  to  form 
perceptions;  and  the  sensations  produced  by  the 
presence  of  an  object  in  perception  are  reproduced 
in  idea.  But  as  the  number  of  perceived  objects 
increases,  it  must  plainly  happen  that  one  and  the 
same  sensation  will  be  called  upon  t'o  do  duty  in 
more  than  one  perception  or  idea.  The  quality  of 
blue,  e.g.,  belongs  to  water  and  sky,  to  certain  flowers 
and  birds,  to  certain  earths  and  rocks,  —  to  say  noth- 
ing of  human  productions ;  it  occurs  in  a  vast  num- 
ber of  different  perceptions.  By  being  used  over 
and  over  again,  in  this  way,  every  sensation  gets 
into  habits  of  connection  with  other  sensations ;  while 
these,  in  their  turn,  form  habits  of  connection  with 
yet  others,  and  so  on. 

The  law  of  Now  it  is  one  of  the  most  important  laws  of  mind 
on'  that  all  the  connections  set  up  between  sensations,  by 
their  welding  together  into  perceptions  and  ideas, 
tend  to  persist.  A  sensation  which  has  once  formed 
connections  with  other  sensations  cannot  shake  them 
off  and  be  its  own  bare  self  again,  —  the  bare  sensa- 
tion that  it  was  when  it  entered  for  the  first  time  into 
a  perception,  —  but  carries  its  connections  about  with 
it;  so  that  whenever  it  has  a  place  in  a  conscious- 
ness, the  connected  sensations  tend  to  be  dragged  in 
also.  This  law  is  the  law  of  the  association  of  ideas. 

There  are  various  points  that  we  must  notice,  in  regard 
to  this  law  of  association,  before  we  proceed  to  discuss 


§  54-    The  Association  of  Ideas  131 

the  two  forms  of  association,  the  simultaneous  and  the 
successive. 

(1)  Notice  that  the  work  of  association,  the  associating,  is   Sensations 
done  not  by  ideas  but  by  sensations  contained  in  ideas.     A  sen-   associate; 
sation  (blue),  which  is  contained  in  my  perception  or  idea  of  a 

lake,  is  also  contained  in  my  idea  of  M.  Bouguereau's  picture, 
"  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels."  When  I  see  or  think  of  the  lake,  I 
think  of  the  picture.  The  ideas  are  associated:  but  it  is  a  sen- 
sation that  does  the  work. 

(2)  Notice,  on  the  other  hand,  that  although  the  sensation    ideas  are 
does  the  work  it  is  ideas,  meanings,  that  are  associated.     My   associated, 
idea  of  the  lake  does  not  call  up  an  idea  of  the  blue  in  the 

picture,  but  an  idea  of  the  whole  picture.  The  associate/,  then, 
is  an  idea. 

(3)  Putting  these  two  facts  together,  we  get  the  formula  of  Formula  of 
association :   ab-bc.     My  lake-idea  contains  the  elements  a,  b ;    associatlon- 
my  picture-idea  the  elements  b,  c.     The  sensation  of  blue  is  con- 
nected both  with  a  and  with  c.     Hence  when  I  have  the  percep- 
tion or  idea  ab,  the  connection  of  b  with  c  tends  to  persist,  and 

the  lake  reminds  me  of  the  picture. 

(4)  In  the  older  psychologies  we  read  of  various  '  kinds '  of  Forms  of 
association:   association  by  contrast  (' giant '  suggests  'dwarf'),   association, 
by  similarity  ('Dickens'1  suggests  'Thackeray'),  by  contiguity 

('sea'  suggests  'ships,' because  the  two  are  seen  together),  by 
cause  and  effect  (the  riven  oak-tree  suggests  the  lightning  that 
struck  it),  by  means  and  end  (the  idea  of  keeping  our  clothes 
unspoilt  suggests  the  taking  of  an  umbrella  with  us  when  we  go 
out),  and  so  on.  It  is  clear,  however,  from  what  has  just  been 
said,  that  these  are  not  '  kinds '  of  association,  —  there  is  only 
one  kind,  —  but  merely  forms  of  it,  arranged  for  convenience 
under  certain  heads.  Every  one  of  the  instances  given  can  be 
brought  under  the  formula  ab-bc ;  the  working  of  the  law  is  the 
same  in  each  case.  We  may  classify  photographs  as  blue  prints 
and  carbon  prints  and  silver  prints  and  platinotypes,  as  helio- 
types  and  collotypes  and  stannotypes ;  but  the  principle  of  pho- 
tography, the  fundamental  law,  is  the  same  for  all. 

(5)  Notice  that   the   ab  of  the   formula    ab-bc    may   be    a   Perception 


and   associa- 
Similarly,  some  (though  not  all)  of  the  elements  in  the  be  of  the 


Perception,  though  we  always  speak  of  the  association  of  ideas. 
It  may  be  the  perceived,  seen  lake  that  suggests  the  picture-idea. 


132  Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 

formula  may  be  perceived.  When  a  man  whose  memory  is  of 
the  visual  and  organic  types  is  reminded  of  a  past  experience  by 
some  present  perception,  the  be  of  the  association  consists  in 
part  of  organic  sensations  actually  set  up  in  the  body  at  the 
moment  of  recall,  —  consists,  i.e.,  of  a  perception. 

§  55.  Simultaneous  Association. — We  saw,  in  the 
last  chapter,  that  pure  perception  is  very  rare  in  the 
adult  mind.  Most  of  our  perceptions  are  mixed ; 
consist  partly  of  outside  and  partly  of  inside  sensa- 
tions. To  such  a  length  has  the  mixture  of  percep- 
tion and  idea  been  carried  that  it  is  scarcely  possible, 
in  some  cases,  to  imagine  with  any  vividness  what  the 
original  process  of  perceiving  was.  We  can  hardly 
realise  now  what  the  perceptions  of  place  on  the  skin, 
of  distance  in  space  and  of  rhythm  were  in  their  first 
formation ;  our  way  of  perceiving  them  is  a  short  cut, 
a  jump  at  meaning,  with  most  of  the  steps  that  our 
forefathers  took  left  out. 

simuitane-  The  assimilations  and  symbolic  perceptions  of  our 
own  minds  are  put  together  by  way  of  simultaneous 
association.  A  material  object  flashes  one  of  its 
aspects  into  consciousness  in  the  shape  of  a  sensation. 
This  sensation  has  fixed  habits  of  connection  with 
other,  central  sensations.  Hence  when  it  arises., 
they  necessarily  arise  with  it.  Doubtless,  if  we  knew 
the  truth,  they  come  some  small  fraction  of  a  second 
after  it ;  but  the  interval  is  so  short  as  to  be  altogether 
unnoticeable.  In  practical  experience,  when  the  sen- 
sation comes,  it  comes  with  a  bevy  of  inside  sensations 
clustered  about  it. 

Suppose  that  you  are  strolling  along  a  country  road,  and 
suddenly  hear  a  rumbling  noise.  You  know  at  once  that  it 
is  coming  from  behind  you,  and  that  it  is  the  noise  of  a 


§  55-    Simultaneous  Association  133 

carriage.  You  do  not  turn ;  but  in  a  few  moments,  when 
the  noise  has  reached  a  certain  degree  of  loudness,  you  step 
to  the  path  to  make  way. 

Now  sounds  do  not  possess  the  attribute  of  extent,  and  The 
so  cannot  give  rise,  directly,  to  space  perceptions.  Never- 
theless,  you  seem  here  to  be  placing  the  noise,  and  placing 
it  accurately,  by  a  direct  perception  of  its  distance  and 
direction.  What  is  the  explanation? 

The  fact  is  that,  when  the  noise  takes  its  place  among 
the  processes  composing  your  consciousness,  it  brings  with 
it  a  number  of  central  supplements.  If  you  are  eye-minded, 
these  are  visual ;  a  picture  of  the  carriage,  at  a  particular 
place  upon  the  road.  If  you  are  ear-minded,  they  are  au- 
ditory; the  sound  of  the  words,  "There's  a  carriage  just 
there,  so  far  behind  ! "  (In  this  case,  the  words  must  have 
been  got  from  previous  visual  perceptions ;  sight  has  been 
translated  into  hearing,  into  words  heard.)  If  you  are 
touch-minded,  they  are  tactual ;  perhaps  the  '  feel '  of  the 
same  words  in  your  throat,  perhaps  that  of  the  shrinking 
of  the  whole  body  from  imagined  contact  with  the  carriage. 
In  reality,  then,  the  noise  is  perceived  as  coming  from  a 
particular  thing  and  place  only  indirectly,  by  way  of  simul- 
taneous association. 

Notice  how  the  formula  of  association  is  followed  in  this 
instance.  Some  aspect,  b,  of  the  rumbling  noise  ab  has  been 
nresent  in  previous  perceptions  along  with  c,  the  look  of  the 
carriage.  Having  ab  now,  you  necessarily  have  be  also  :  b  is  so 
firmly  welded  to  c  that  when  b  comes  c  comes  with  it. 

The  commonest  and,  perhaps,  most  important  of  Verbal  asso 
the  inside  processes  that  blend  with  the  outside  sen- 
sation in  this  form  of  association  are  w0>v/-processes. 
The  first  definite  idea  that  a  thing  suggests  to  us  is 
generally  a  word-idea,  —  the  name  of  the  thing.  And 
when  the  name  has  been  associated  to  the  thing,  the 
association  usually  stops ;  the  fringe  of  nascent  asso- 
ciates of  other  kinds  fades  away  ;  there  is  no  need  for 


134          Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 

their  persistence.  Words  are  the  common  denomina- 
tor of  all  perceptions  and  ideas ;  so  that  when  we 
have  named  an  object  we  have  classified  it,  put  it  in 
its  place  in  our  stock  of  knowledge,  set  it  in  harmoni- 
ous relation  with  our  other  experiences.  When  we 
hear  a  rumbling  noise,  upon  our  country  walk,  a 
single  word-associate  will  be  enough  to  '  give  us 
our  bearings.'  '  Carriage  '  starting  up  in  conscious- 
ness will  suggest  one  line  of  action  ;  '  thunder '  start- 
ing up,  another.  The  word  stands  for  so  much, 
symbolises  or  means  so  much,  that  other  associates, 
visual  or  auditory  or  tactual,  are  not  required.  —  Of 
course,  the  word-idea  will  itself  take  on  one  of  these 
three  forms,  according  to  our  memory-type.  And, 
also  of  course,  the  word-association  is  not  anything 
primitive  or  original,  but  the  final  stage  of  a  long 
process  of  development. 

§  56.  Successive  Association.  —  The  mixed  or  sym- 
bolic perception  is  complete  in  itself.  The  nervous 
tendencies  of  the  moment  have  thrown  it  up  on  the 
crest  of  the  attention-wave :  it  has  been  poised  there 
for  a  little  while :  now  it  falls  to  the  lower  level,  and 
makes  way  for  another  perception  or  idea.  That 
shares  the  same  fate,  in  its  turn ;  and  so  on. 
Successive  But  every  one  of  the  sensations  contained  in  the 

association.       „  ,          ,     ,  .  ,  .  TT 

first  perception  has  habits  of  connection.  Hence  it 
is  natural  that  the  second  should  not  be  wholly  inde- 
pendent of  the  first,  but  should  be  built  up  (again 
by  simultaneous  association)  on  the  basis  of  a  sen- 
sation contained  in  the  first ;  that  the  third  should 
not  be  independent  of  the  second,  but  built  up,  in 


§  56.    Successive  Association  135 

the  same  way,  on  some  sensation  contained  in  the 
second  ;  and  so  forth.  And  this  is  the  way  in  which 
ideas  do,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  succeed  one  another 
in  consciousness.  Whenever  we  'let  our  minds  go,' 
give  ourselves  up  to  day-dreaming  or  reverie  or  the 
influence  of  our  surroundings,  —  whenever,  that  is, 
we  are  passively  attentive,  —  our  consciousness  con- 
sists of  a  train  of  ideas.  Each  member  of  the  train  Train  of 
is  suggested  by  some  member  that  goes  before  it; 
and  the  suggestion  is  made  by  a  sensation  which  is 
common  to  the  two  ideas.  The  train  is  put  together 
by  successive  association. 

So  various  are  the  connections  of  sensations  in  the 
adult  mind  that  one  may  pass,  without  a  break,  from 
any  given  idea  to  any  other  given  idea,  —  however 
wide  the  difference  of  meaning  between  the  two,  — 
using  the  sensations  that  are  common  to  two  ideas 
as  stepping-stones.  It  is  easy  to  pass  from  the  idea 
of  '  water '  to  that  of  '  slate  '  ;  the  sensation  '  blue ' 
offers  a  stepping-stone.  And  by  increasing  the  num- 
ber of  steps,  we  can  find  a  way  between  ideas  as 
different  as  those  of  the  English  civil  war  of  1642 
and  the  value  of  a  Roman  penny. 

Thomas  Hobbes  (1588-1679),  perhaps  the  greatest  of  English  Instance, 
philosophers,  has  worked  out  this  instance  in  his  Leviathan 
(ch.  Hi.).  "In  a  discourse  of  our  present  civil  war,"  he  writes, 
"  what  could  seem  more  impertinent  [/'.£.,  less  to  the  point]  than 
to  ask,  as  one  did,  what  was  the  value  of  a  Roman  penny  ?  Yet 
the  coherence  to  me  was  manifest  enough.  For  the  thought  of 
the  war  introduced  the  thought  of  delivering  up  the  king  to  his 
enemies ;  the  thought  of  that  brought  in  the  thought  of  the  de- 
livering up  of  Christ ;  and  that  again  the  thought  of  the  thirty 
pence,  which  was  the  price  of  that  treason.  And  thence  easily 
followed  that  malicious  question :  and  all  this  in  a  moment  of 


136 


Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 


Habit  the 
condition  of 
association. 


time,  —  for  thought  is  quick."  So,  by  finding  the  common  sen- 
sation, the  link  or  stepping-stone  between  idea  and  idea,  we  may 
(to  use  Hobbes1  words)  "perceive  the  way  of  this  wild  ranging 
of  the  mind,  and  the  dependence  of  one  thought  upon  another." 

A  good  instance  of  the  train  of  ideas,  held  together  by  suc- 
cessive association,  is  given  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  in  the  introduc- 
tion to  his  story  "  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue." 

Notice  how  the  formula  of  association  is  repeated  in  the  train 
of  ideas.  We  have  the  series  ab-bc-cd-de  .  .  .  ;  every  pair  of 
links  in  the  chain  repeating  the  type  ab-bc. 

§  57.   The  Physiological  Conditions  of  Association.  — 

In  spite  of  the  multitudinous  connections  that  exist 
between  sensations,  it  is  always  some  particular  idea 
that  is  suggested  by,  and  always  some  particular  group 
of  central  supplements  that  clusters  around  the  pres- 
ent perception.  How  are  we  to  explain  this  ?  Why 
should  association  work  just  in  this  one  way,  and  not 
in  others  ? 

Let  us  put  the  question  more  concretely.  Why  should  the 
idea  of  the  English  civil  war  have  suggested  the  delivering  up  of 
the  king,  rather  than  the  idea  of  the  Roman  civil  war  of  B.C. 
49-45  ?  Why  should  the  name  '  Dickens,'  a  few  pages  back, 
have  suggested  'Thackeray'  rather  than  the  story  of  The 
Wrecker  which  the  authors,  Messrs.  Stevenson  and  Osbourne, 
acknowledge  in  their  Epilogue  to  be  fashioned  after  the  Dickens 
pattern  ?  Why  should  blue  water  suggest  blue  slate  rather 
than  blue  sky  or  the  forget-me-not  or  the  bluebird  ?  Why 
should  the  perception  of  an  etched  portrait  be  supplemented  in 
one  mind  by  the  name  of  the  person  portrayed,  Descartes,  and 
in  another  by  the  name  of  the  etcher,  Edelinck  ?  And  so  on. 

If  we  are  to  sum  up  the  physiological  conditions 
of  association  in  a  single  word,  that  word  will  be 
habit.  Habit  may  be  denned  as  the  tendency  of  a 
thing  to  be  or  do  now  what  it  was  or  did  on  some 
previous  occasion.  The  law  of  habit  runs  all  through 
nature.  Our  old  coat  is  comfortable,  because  it  has 


§  57-  Physiological  Conditions  of  Association     137 

got  into  the  habit  of  fitting  us ;  its  shape  has  been 
gradually  changed,  by  wearing,  till  it  fits  our  body. 
New  tools  do  not  work  so  well  as  old ;  they  have  not 
yet  got  tne  habit  of  working  upon  them :  use  adapts 
them  to  the  materials  upon  which  they  are  employed. 
The  brain,  like  everything  else,  is  subject  to  the  law. 
When  two  or  three  parts  of  the  brain  have  been 
excited  together,  in  perception,  a  habit  of  co-excita- 
tion or  joint  excitation  is  set  up ;  so  that  if,  later  on, 
one  of  the  parts  is  excited  alone,  the  others  will  be 
involved  also,  —  and  involved  the  more  certainly,  the 
more  habitual  the  connection  has  been  in  percep- 
tion. There  is  thus  an  order  of  association :  a 
hundred  ideas  have  associations  with  the  given  per- 
ception, but  that  idea  comes  up  whose  connection 
with  it  is  most  habitual.  ' 


There  are  different  strata  or  levels  of  habit,  in  the  brain,   Various 

levels  i 
habit. 


as  there  are  levels  of  attention  or  perception  in  the  mind.   levels  of 


Deepest  seated  are  the  natural  tendencies  of  the  nervous 
system,  the  tendencies  that  we  bring  into  the  world  with 
us ;  and  the  acquired  tendencies,  the  tendencies  that  are 
drilled  into  us  during  early  education  (§  32).  Next  in 
order  come  the  habits  that  we  form  in  adult  life  :  methods 
of  working,  ways  of  looking  at  things  due  to  social  position 
and  the  company  of  friends,  standards  of  dress  and  be- 
haviour, etc.  Most  superficial  of  all  are  the  habits  set  up 
by  recent  experience ;  habits  which  will  disappear  as  the 
memory  of  this  experience  fades. 

Thus  water  may  suggest  slate  because  I  am  a  '  born  geologist ' 
(natural  tendency).  The  portrait  suggests  Edelinck  because  I 
have  been  brought  up  in  an  artistic  home,  and  have  constantly 
heard  discussions  of  etchings  and  engravings  in  my  childhood 
(acquired  tendency).  Giant  suggests  dwarf  because  I  have 
gradually  formed  a  standard  of  human  height  and  size  in  my 


1 38  Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 

daily  intercourse  with  other  men ;  and  both  giant  and  dwarf 
depart  from  this  standard.  Lastly,  Dickens  suggests  Thackeray 
because  I  have  just  been  re-reading  Vanity  Fair,  while  I  have 
not  read  The  Wrecker  for  some  three  or  four  years. 

Some  habits  Most  habits  are  set  up  slowly,  by  long-continued  repeti- 
tion. Indeed,  this  idea  of  repetition,  of  doing  something 
over  and  over  again,  seems  to  be  essential  to  the  idea  of 
habit :  there  can  be  no  habit,  we  should  be  apt  to  say, 
unless  there  is  repetition.  Nevertheless,  some  brain  habits 
are  set  up  all  at  once,  by  a  sudden  wrench ;  just  as  we 
may  give  a  permanent  bend  to  a  fencing-foil  by  one  violent 
lunge.  If  a  dear  friend  has  been  drowned  on  a  pleasure 
excursion,  it  is  probable  that  we  shall  never  think  of  boat- 
ing parties  without  thinking  also  of  the  chance  of  drowning  : 
the  association  has  become  a  permanent  brain  habit,  although 
the  connection  of  boating  and  drowning  in  our  perception 
occurred  only  once. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

(1)  Work  out  all  the  instances  of  association  given  in  §§  54-57, 

showing  how  they  fall  under  the  formula  ab-bc. 

(2)  Try  to  discover  your  own  memory  type  or  types,  by  the 

following  exercises : 

a.  Open  your  mouth  a  little,  and  imagine  the  words  mother, 

bottle,  trumpet.  If  you  can  imagine  them  easily,  with- 
out any  inclination  to  close  the  mouth,  you  can  think 
in  visual  or  auditory  terms  ;  if  you  have  an  irresistible 
tendency  to  move  lips  or  tongue,  your  mind  is  (partly, 
at  least)  of  the  tactual  type.  Notice,  in  the  former 
event,  how  you  do  imagine  them. 

b.  Shut  your  eyes,  and  form  a  mental  picture  of  your  break- 

fast table.  Can  you  see  all  of  the  table  service  at 
once  ?  Can  you  see  the  things  in  their  right  colours  ? 
Does  the  picture  lie  out  before  you,  easily  compre- 
hended ;  or  must  you  move  your  eyes  with  an  effort 
from  cup  to  dish,  from  knife  to  coffee-pot,  in  order 
to  get  a  view  of  the  whole?  In  the  latter  case,  your 
visual  memory  is  mixed  with  tactual. 


Questions  and  Exercises  139 

c.  Can  you  recognise  your  friends  directly  by  the  sound  of 

their  voices?  Or,  when  you  hear  the  voice,  do  you 
have  a  mental  picture  of  the  approaching  figure? 

d.  Can  you  remember  musical  airs  that  you  have  heard  only 

once?  And,  if  you  remember  them,  do  you  hear  them 
in  your  head,  or  do  you  '  feel '  your  throat  twitch  as 
they  are  recalled?  Can  you  imagine  the  sound  of  a 
note  that  is  higher  than  the  highest  you  can  sing?  — 
Determine,  from  the  answers  you  give,  whether  your 
type  is  auditory  or  mixed  auditory  and  tactual. 

e.  What  is  your  method  of '  learning  by  heart '  ? 

f.  Can  you  imagine  the  tastes  of  sweet  and  bitter,  without 

any  thought  of  the  sweet  or  bitter  substance,  and  with- 
out any  inclination  to  '  lick  your  lips '  or  screw  your 
tongue  out  of  the  way?  —  Can  you  imagine  the  scent 
of  violets  and  the  smell  of  asafoetida,  without  any 
thought  of  the  flower  or  the  resin?  without  any  ten- 
dency to  sniff  or  to  close  your  nostrils  ? 

g.  Think  of  Deerslayer  in  the  hands  of  the  Mingoes.     Do 

you  simply  see  the  scene,  or  hear  or  '  feel '  the  words 
that  describe  it,  —  or  do  you  *  sicken '  to  think  of  it,  and 
grow  '  breathless '  with  suspense  as  hope  after  hope  of 
deliverance  fails? 

(3)  Perform  this  experiment  in  class,  or  in  a  company  of  friends. 

Let  the  experimenter  choose  a  list  of  words  which,  as  pro- 
nounced, may  mean  different  things:  time  (thyme),  bow 
(beau),  mind  (verb  or  substantive),  sole  (of  foot,  the  fish, 
soul) .  These  he  is  to  read  out  slowly,  each  member  of 
the  audience  writing  down  what  he  takes  the  word  to 
mean,  i.e.,  how  it  is  supplemented  in  his  consciousness  by 
centrally  aroused  sensations.  At  the  end  of  the  reading, 
comparisons  of  results  may  be  made  ;  every  one  referring 
his  association  to  some  one  of  the  three  levels  of  habit, 
and  reducing  it  to  the  formula  ab-bc. 

(4)  Perform  this  experiment  in  the  same  way.     Let  the  experi- 

menter write  some  familiar  word  on  a  blackboard, — 
'table'  or  'saucer'  or  -lion'  or  what  not, — and  conceal  it 
with  his  hand  or  a  cloth.  At  a  preconcerted  signal  he 
shows  the  word  for  2  sec.,  and  then  covers  it  again. 
Each  member  of  the  audience  writes  out  the  first  ten 
ideas  suggested  by  the  word  seen. 


140  Idea  and  the  Association  of  Ideas 

The  written  list  of  ideas  must  be  worked  over  very  care- 
fully, (a)  Write  out,  by  introspection,  the  precise  mate- 
rials (visual,  auditory,  etc.)  of  which  the  ideas  are  made. 
(ft)  Show  the  dependence  of  each  idea  on  some  foregoing 
idea,  using  the  formula  ab-bc.  (c)  Notice  that  the  words 
you  have  written  down  are  merely  indications  of  the  ideas 
you  actually  had,  —  signs  of,  perhaps,  very  complicated 
processes.  And  notice  that  the  part  of  the  real  idea  that 
the  word  stands  for  is  the  part  that  you  attended  to,  while 
you  thought :  there  was  a  great  mass  of  idea  that  you  did 
not  attend  to,  did  not  try  to  express  in  the  word.  Now 
fill  out  the  gaps,  putting  down  all  the  interstitial  processes 
that  introspection  shows  you. 

(5)  Suppose  yourself  to  have  been  present  at  the  punishment  of 

Hester  Prynne,  as  Hawthorne  describes  it  in  ch.  ii.  of 
The  Scarlet  Letter.  In  how  many  different  ways  could 
you  remember  the  event?  State  what  the  memory  would 
be,  in  each  case.  What,  do  you  suppose,  was  Haw- 
thorne's memory  type?  Why? 

(6)  What  is  the  link  or  stepping-stone  in  the  following  instances 

of  successive  association? 

abed  suggests   efg 
Harvard        "        Yale 
"  Baby  has  swallowed  a  cent ! "        "       x-rays 

'  Tom  '        "        <  Dick  and  Harry ' 
a  +  2b  +  $c  +  •••  +  xn        "        Hamlet 

(7)  Is  the  difference  between  simultaneous  and  successive  asso- 

ciation a  difference  of  degree  or  a  difference  of  kind? 

(8)  What  advantages  would  there  be  in  having  a  memory  which 

was  predominantly  verbal  ?     What  disadvantages  ? 


References 

James,  Textbook,  ch.  xvi. 
Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  chs.  vii.,  ix. 
Titchener,  Outline,  §§  52-55,  75,76. 
Wundt,  Lectures,  Lects.  XIX.,  XX. 
Wundt,  Outlines,  §  16. 


CHAPTER   VIII 
EMOTION 

§  58.  Feeling,  Emotion  and  Mood.  — Sensations  blend 
together  to  form  perceptions  and  ideas.  Perceptions 
and  ideas  unite,  in  their  turn,  to  form  still  more 
complicated  processes :  assimilations,  held  together 
by  simultaneous  association,  and  trains  of  ideas,  held 
together  by  successive  association. 

When  a  perception  or  idea  is  swamped  by  affection,  Emotion, 
the  result  is  called  a  feeling.     When  a  group  of  per- 
ceptions or  ideas  is  swamped  by  affection,  the  result 
is  an  emotion  (simultaneous  association)   r  a  mood(s\\<c.- 
cessive  association).     So  we  may  write  the  equation : 

_    ..  (  Assimilation  :    Emotion. 

Perception  or  Idea  :  Feeling  =^_.       ...          ..      , 

(  Tram  of  Ideas  :  Mood. 

There  are  two  chief  differences  between  the  Feeling  sim- 
emotion  and  the  simple  feeling.  ( i )  The  affection  emotion" 
in  a  feeling  attaches  to  a  group  of  bare  sensations 
(ff-  §  54)5  the  affection  in  an  emotion  attaches  to  a 
group  of  sensations  all  of  which  have  already  formed 
habits  of  connection  with  other  sensations.  In  dif- 
ferent words :  the  sensation-group  in  the  feeling 
stands  for,  means,  some  single  object  or  process  of 
the  material  world ;  the  sensation-group  in  the  emo- 
tion stands  for  some  group  of  objects  or  processes, 
for  what  we  call  a  '  situation '  or  '  incident '  or 
'event.'  Hence  the  emotion  is  more  complex  than 
the  feeling. 


142 


Emotion 


Feeling 
weaker  than 
emotion. 


Mood 


Remember  that  our  own  body  forms  part  of  the  'matena, 
world,'  in  the  sense  in  which  we  are  using  this  phrase  here. 

We  'feel  tired'  or  'hot'  or  'thirsty.'  Our  feeling  in  these 
cases  reflects  a  single  fact  of  the  material  world :  the  relaxation 
of  our  muscles,  the  high  temperature  of  the  surrounding  atmo- 
sphere, the  dryness  of  our  throat.  But  when  we  '  feel  afraid '  our 
emotion  reflects  a  whole  situation :  the  fearful  object  before  us, 
our  own  helplessness,  the  impossibility  of  escape,  the  pain  that 
we  shall  soon  suffer,  etc.,  etc. 

Do  not  be  misled  by  the  phrase  '  feel  afraid '  into  thinking  that 
fear  is  a  simple  feeling:  cf.  §  25. 

(2)  Since  the  emotion  is  a  more  complex  and  more 
serious  matter  than  the  feeling,  the  bodily  signs  of 
emotion  will  naturally  be  more  evident  and  more 
pronounced.  We  shall  have  the  four  symptoms  of 
§  26,  in  an  extreme  form;  but  we  shall  also  have 
new  symptoms  from  other  bodily  organs  or  tissues. 
This  general  disturbance  of  the  bodily  functions 
gives  rise  to  a  mass  of  internal  sensations  which,  like 
all  of  their  kind,  are  strongly  affective.  So  the 
emotion  is  intensified  :  the  internal  sensations  blend 
with  the  ideas  called  up  by  the  situation,  and  add 
largely  to  the  pleasantness  or  unpleasantness  of  the 
experience.  The  emotion  is  stronger  fa&h.  the  feeling. 

We  shall  discuss  these  bodily  disturbances  in  detail  in  §  60. 

A  mood  is  simply  an  emotion  'long  drawn  out.' 
The  affection  is  spread  over  a  train  of  ideas,  instead 
of  colouring  a  single  group  of  ideas  and  organic  sensa- 
tions (emotion)  or  a  single  cluster  of  bare  sensations 
(feeling).  And,  since  this  train  is  marginal,  not  focal, 
in  the  series  of  consciousnesses  tinged  by  the  mood 
(cf.  Fig.  10,  p.  75),  it  follows  that  the  pleasantness  or 
unpleasantness  of  the  mood  at  any  given  moment  is 
much  less  than  that  of  the  corresponding  emotion. 


§  59-     How  Emotions  are  Formed           143 

§  59.    How   Emotions   are   Formed.  —  Our  emotions  The  emotion 
always  come  upon  us  with  more  or  less  of  sudden-  ™1 


ness.     The  stream  of  perceptions  and  ideas  is  flow-   whose  core 

ing  on  at  its  usual,  everyday  level,  when  suddenly  we 

find  ourselves  in  a  certain  situation,  or  are  confronted 

by  a  certain  incident  or  event,  which  we  cannot  but 

attend    to.     Two  things  happen,     (i)  The  situation  isanassimi- 

,,  ..  j     lation, 

or  event  gives  rise,  naturally,  to  a  perception  ;    and 

the  perception  is  supplemented,  as  perceptions  usu- 

ally are,  by  ideas.     Moreover,  since  we  have  lapsed 

into  a  state  of  passive  attention,  this  complex  assimi- 

lation is  strongly  and  vividly  felt  ;  strong  affection  is 

the  counterpart  of  passive  attention.     Meantime  (2)  and  which 

we  have  faced  the  situation  by  a  bodily  attitude;  the 


bodily  disturbances,  spoken  of  just  now,  are  running  organic  sen- 

their  course  ;  and  the  original  feeling,  strong  in  itself, 

is  reinforced  by  all  manner  of  sensations  from  the 

internal  organs.     The  emotion  reaches  its  climax  in 

the  perfect  fusion  of  the  two  sets  of  processes,  the 

complex  feeling  and  the  organic    sensations.     This 

point  passed,  it  either  fades  out  altogether  (as  when 

anger  '  quiets   down  '),  or  changes    into  its  opposite 

(as  when  fear  gives  place  to  relief),  or  subsides  into 

the  less  violent  and  more  lasting  mood  (as  when  joy 

becomes  a  steady  cheerfulness). 

An  emotion  is  formed,  then,  when  (i)  our  current 
train  of  thought  is  interrupted  by  (2)  an  assimilation, 
which  is  keenly  felt,  and  which  (3)  is  made  still  more 
keenly  affective  by  the  addition  of  a  mass  of  organic 
sensations. 

Shakespeare  has  given  us  an  illustration  of  the  forming  of  an   The  emotio 
emotion  (the  emotion  of  chagrin)  in  King  Henry  -I  'III.,  iii.  2.    of  chagrin. 


144 


Emotion 


The  bodily 
signs  of 
emotion : 


(i)  the  four 
signs  of 
affection ; 


(2)  disturb- 
ances of 
glands  and 
involuntary 
nuscles 


Wolsey  is  'moody,'  'discontented,'  'vex'd,'  at  the  idea  of  the 
King's  marriage  with  Anne  Bullen.  His  plans  are  interrupted 
by  Henry's  infatuation. 

"  Anne  Bullen  !     No ;  I'll  no  Anne  Bullens  for  him  .  .  . 
I  know  her  for 

A  spleeny  Lutheran ;  and  not  wholesome  to 
Our  cause  "... 

The  emotion  shows  itself  in  external  bodily  disturbances : 
"  Some  strange  commotion 
Is  in  his  brain  :  he  bites  his  lip  and  starts  ; 
Stops  on  a  sudden,  looks  upon  the  ground, 
Then  lays  hie  finger  on  his  temple  ;  straight 
Swings  out  into  fast  gait ;  then  stops  again, 
Strikes  his  breast  hard ;   and  anon  he  casts 
His  eye  against  the  moon ;  in  most  strange  postures 
We  have  seen  him  set  himself  :  " 

many  of  which  are  the  signs  of  internal  bodily  disorder,  and  all 
of  which  supply  sensations  to  reinforce  the  central  feeling. 

§  60.  The  Bodily  Expression  of  Emotion  :  Trunk  and 
Limbs.  —  We  saw  in  §  26  that  there  are  four  bodily 
signs  of  the  presence  of  affection  in  consciousness. 
We  have  now  to  ask  what  are  the  bodily  signs  of  the 
presence  of  an  emotion,  what  sort  of  physiological 
processes  are  aroused  when  we  confront  a  situa- 
tion. 

(1)  Since  emotion  is  an  affective  process,  the  bodily 
signs  of  joy  or  grief,  anger  or  fear,  will  include  the 
bodily    signs    of    affection    in    general.     We    have 
changes  of  pulse  and  breathing,  of  muscular  strength 
and  of  the  volume  of  the  body.     And  these  changes 
are  of   opposite  kinds,  according  as  the  emotion  is 
pleasant  or  unpleasant. 

(2)  Since,  however,  the  emotion  is  a  more  complex 
and  more  serious  matter  than  the  feeling,  we  shall 
expect  to  -find  still  further  bodily  disturbances.     We 


§  6o.  Expression  of  Emotion  :   Trunk  and  Limbs    145 

find,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  disturbances  of  the  organs 
of  secretion  (tear  glands,  sweat  glands,  etc.)  and  of 
the  other  involuntary  muscles  besides  the  heart. 

These  disturbances  are  very  marked  in  the  emotion  of  fear.   (^Darwin's 
The  following  account  of  them   is   pieced   together  from   the   description 
description  given  by  Darwin  in  his  classical  work  The  Expres- 
sion of  the  Emotions  in  Man  and  Animals. 

"That  the  skin  is  much  affected  under  the  sense  of  great 
fear,  we  see  in  the  marvellous  and  inexplicable  manner  in  which 
perspiration  immediately  exudes  from  it.  This  exudation  is  all 
the  more  remarkable  as  the  surface  is  then  cold.  The  hairs  also 
on  the  skin  stand  erect ;  and  the  superficial  muscles  shiver.  The 
salivary  glands  act  imperfectly;  the  mouth  becomes  dry.  As 
fear  rises  to  an  extreme  pitch,  the  intestines  are  affected.  The 
secretions  of  the  alimentary  canal  and  of  the  kidneys  are  in- 
creased." 

Here  we  have  a  disturbance  of  several  glands  (sweat  glands, 
salivary  glands,  etc.),  and  of  the  involuntary  muscles  lying  just 
beneath  the  surface  of  the  skin  (hair  standing  on  end,  shivering 
and  goose-flesh). 

(3)  Again  :  the  emotion  is  not  so  personal  and  sub-   (3)  weak- 

.  ,  ened  survi- 

jective  (§27,  2)  an  experience  as  the  feeling.     It  arises  vais  of  once 
only  when  we  are  facing  a  set  of  circumstances  that  servlceable 

actions ; 

have  intruded  upon  an  existing  consciousness,  when 
we  are  confronting  a  situation.  Naturally,  then,  there 
will  be  some  aspects  of  its  bodily  manifestation  that 
refer  to  the  circumstances,  to  the  situation.  The 
bodily  changes  will  show  us,  not  merely  that  the  man 
is  strongly  affected,  but  that  he  is  strongly  affected 
by  some  particular  incident,  in  some  particular  way. 

Light  is  thrown  upon  the  matter  by  certain  facts 
of  biological  evolution.  In  the  struggle  for  existence, 
those  animals  have  survived  which  took  unexpected 
events  in  the  best  manner.  So  it  is  an  ingrained 
habit  of  the  nervous  system  that  leads  the  deer  to 


146 


Emotion 


[Emotion  an 
instance  of 
fusion.] 


(4) 
feature. 


run  when  it  hears  the  noise  of  the  hounds,  the  sitting 
bird  to  crouch  down  upon  the  nest  at  the  approach  of 
an  intruder.  Habits  of  this  sort  die  hard.  If  we 
men  do  not  run,  we  do  'jump '  when  we  are  startled ; 
if  we  do  not  crouch  down,  we  do  '  wince '  when  we 
are  afraid.  The  jump  and  wince,  that  is,  are  bodily 
signs  of  emotions  (alarm,  fear):  they  are  relics  of 
actions  which  were  of  great  service  to  our  animal 
ancestors  in  confronting  a  situation,  and  which  have 
persisted  in  man,  in  weakened  form,  just  by  sheer 
force  of  habit. 

The  sensations  set  up  by  these  bodily  disturbances  colour 
the  whole  emotion,  very  much  as  overtones  colour  the  note 
of  a  musical  instrument,  making  it  a  piano  note,  a  violin  note, 
etc.  (§  42).  The  mass  of  ideas  and  sensations  is  blended 
together  to  form  one  mental  whole,  an  emotion ;  just  as 
noises,  tone  and  overtones  blend  to  form  a  note.  And  just 
as  the  unskilled  ear  takes  a  note  to  be  a  simple  (sensation) 
process,  so  may  unskilled  introspection  take  emotion  be  a 
single,  simple  process. 

So  important  are  the  organic  sensations  for  emotion  that,  if 
they  happen  to  appear  of  themselves,  they  may  easily  bring  the 
emotion  with  them.  When  Deerslayer  caught  the  tomahawk 
hurled  at  him,  "  his  hand  was  raised  above  and  behind  his  own 
head,  and  in  the  very  attitude  necessary  to  return  the  attack.  It 
is  not  certain "  —  notice  this  sentence  —  "  whether  the  circum- 
stance of  finding  himself  in  this  menacing  posture  and  armed 
tempted  the  young  man  to  retaliate,  or  whether  sudden  resent- 
ment overcame  his  forbearance  and  prudence."  Cooper  has 
realised  the  undoubted  fact  that,  given  the  attitude,  the  emo- 
tion might  come  of  itself  (Deerslayer,  ch.  xxvii.). 

§  61.  The  Bodily  Expression  of  Emotion:  Face. — 
(4)  But,  after  all,  the  principal  sign  of  emotion  in 
man  is  the  look  of  his  face.  Sometimes  it  is  the 
eyes  that  show  emotion ;  we  open  the  eyes  widely, 


§  6i.    Expression  of  Emotion:  Face          147 

e.g.,  when  we  are  surprised.  Sometimes  it  is  eyes 
and  nostrils  together;  think  of  the  frown  and  the 
movement  of  the  nostrils  in  anger.  Sometimes,  again, 
it  is  the  mouth  ;  the  injured  man  seems  to  be  tasting 
something  bitter,  the  disappointed  to  be  tasting  some- 
thing sour,  the  flattered  to  be  tasting  something  sweet. 
How  are  we  to  account  for  all  these  '  looks  '  ? 

The   look  of  anger  is  finely  described  in  King  Henry  F.,   Anger 
iii.  I  : 

"  Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect  ; 
Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head 
Like  the  brass  cannon  ;  let  the  brow  overwhelm  it 
As  fearfully  as  doth  a  galled  rock 
O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  ba.se 
Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 
Now  set  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide  ; 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 
To  his  full  height!" 

Some  of  them  fall  under  the  JP  tr  of  habit  that  we 
have  just  discussed.  It  is  useful  for  the  surprised 
animal  to  have  a  wide  field  of  view;  and  for  the 
angry  animal  to  have  his  sight  focussed  on  his  adver- 
sary, and  to  draw  deep  breaths  for  the  combat.  So 
these  looks  have  persisted,  in  weaker  form,  as  signs 
of  human  emotion.  The  others,  however,  —  the  sweet 
and  sour  and  bitter  expressions,  —  require  a  more 
elaborate  explanation,  which  takes  us  back  to  the 
primitive  days  of  our  race. 

Primitive  language  is  full  of  what  we  should  call  Explanation 
metaphor.     Our  forefathers  could  not  speak  glibly, 


as  we  do,  in  abstract  terms;   when  they  wanted  to  primitive 

language 

say  that  a  thing  was  black  they  said  it  was  scorched,  was  meta- 
•.  —  when  they  wanted  a  word  for  soul  they  called  it  phc 


148 


and  eked 
out  by  gest- 
ure. 


The  meta- 
phor has 
been  lost ; 
the  gesture 
persists, 


breath.  So  when  they  needed  to  tell  their  comrades 
about  the  circumstances  that  had  called  up  an  emo- 
tion, they  were  unable  to  put  the  circumstances  in 
adequate  words ;  they  gave  a  partial,  metaphorical 
account  of  what  had  happened. 

The  one  thing  necessary  in  a  primitive  society  is 
food ;  and  primitive  metaphors  are  naturally,  to  a 
large  extent,  metaphors  from  the  preparing  and  ob- 
taining of  food,  from  cooking  and  hunting.  Hence 
the  first  ideas  that  came  into  a  man's  mind  under 
pleasant  circumstances  might  very  well  have  been 
ideas  of  sweet  things,  and  the  first  ideas  that  came 
under  unpleasant  circumstances,  ideas  of  sour  or 
bitter  things.  Wishing  to  say  that  his  hunt  had 
been  successful,  he  said  that  it  had  been  sweet ; 
wishing  to  say  that  it  had  been  unsuccessful,  he 
said  that  it  had  been  sour  or  bitter. 

Again :  primitive  language  was  largely  a  gesture- 
language.  Since  the  spoken  words  gave  only  a  par- 
tial account  of  the  event  described,  they  were  eked 
out  by  movements  of  hand  or  feature.  And  fore- 
most among  these  movements  were  the  movements 
that  corresponded  to  the  metaphor.  The  successful 
hunter  actually  licked  his  lips,  and  seemed  to  suck 
a  sweet  morsel ;  the  unsuccessful  drew  his  lips  out 
sideways,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  taste  as  little  as 
possible  of  his  sour  draught. 

Now  we  begin  to  see  where  the  argument  is  taking 
us.  Certain  processes  in  the  emotion  (in  the  com- 
plex of  sensations,  set  up  by  the  situation,  that  terms 
the  basis  of  the  vivid  feeling)  suggest  a  metaphor,  by 
simultaneous  association ;  and  the  metaphor  brings 


§  6r.    Expression  of  Emotion:  Face         149 

a  movement  with  it.  As  language  developes,  the 
metaphor  is  lost :  it  is  no  longer  necessary.  But 
the  movement  persists.  When  the  emotion  comes, 
the  movement  comes  with  it.  The  movement  sur- 
vives, partly  because  of  its  intrinsic  fitness  to  com- 
municate to  others  a  knowledge  of  our  emotion,  and 
partly  because  gesture  cannot  change  as  language 
does.  The  connection  of  the  metaphor  with  the  feel- 
ing, and  the  connection  of  the  movement  with  the 
feeling  are,  at  first,  equally  strong;  both  strong 
enough  to  last  into  our  civilised  life.  But  the  meta- 
phor has  been  driven  away  by  new  words,  while 
the  gesture  has  not  been  driven  away  by  new  move- 
ments. Hence  when  we  are  feeling  hurt  we  at  once 
'  look  bitter ' ;  the  gesture  comes  immediately  to  ex- 
press our  emotion,  without  there  being  any  hint  of 
the  metaphor. 

The  following  Table  will  show  the  reader,  at  a  glance,  how 
the  various  bodily  signs  of  emotion  have  been  developed, 
and  how  they  are  related  to  one  another. 

(l)  Change  of  pulse,  breathing,  volume  and  strength. 


(2)  Extension  of  (i)  within  the  body,  due  to   the   greater 

intensity  of  the  emotion :  change  in  secretion  and  in 
contraction  of  the  involuntary  muscles. 

(3)  Extension  of  ( i )  to  the  outside  of  the  body,  due  to  the 

need  of  meeting  the  situation  by  the  right  attitude : 
change  in  position,  movements  of  limbs  and  features. 

\ 

(4)  Certain  sensations  in  the  emotion  call  up  a  metaphor,  and 

the  metaphor  calls  out  movement  of  features.  Then 
the  metaphor  drops  out ;  but  the  play  of  features  re- 
mains associated  to  the  sensation-processes  in  the 
emotion. 


ISO 


Emotion 


Names  of 
emotions  are 
of  practical, 
not  of  scien- 
tific impor- 
tance. 


Two  groups 
of  emotions. 


§  62.  The  Classification  of  the  Emotions.  —  Very 
many  attempts  have  been  made  to  classify  the  emo- 
tions, to  group  them  in  accordance  with  some  prin- 
ciple which  should  show  their  genesis  and  relation- 
ship. No  attempt  has  been  altogether  successful. 
This  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  however ;  for  language 
has  been  shaped  by  practical  needs,  not  by  scientific 
requirements.  The  emotions  that  are  important  in 
everyday  life,  those  set  up  by  important  events  or 
events  that  every  man  is  called  upon  to  face  in  the 
natural  course  of  life, — these  emotions  have  received 
names.  But  there  must  be  many  others,  whose  prac- 
tical import  is  less  or  whose  shades  of  difference  are 
so  slight  as  to  escape  the  notice  of  the  ordinary 
observer,  that  have  never  been  named.  Hence  any 
list  that  we  may  make  will,  of  necessity,  be  incom- 
plete and  badly  balanced. 

We  can,  however,  divide  the  emotions  into  two 
great  groups,  according  as  the  situation  reflected  by 
them  is  reflected  under  the  aspect  of  quality  or 
under  that  of  time.  It  may  be  the  circumstances  of 
our  predicament  that  affect  us,  the  actual  facts  of  the 
event :  then  we  have  a  qualitative  emotion.  Or  it 
may  be  the  length  of  time  that  the  situation  lasts,  or 
the  order  in  which  things  happen  :  then  we  have  a 
temporal  emotion.  We  will  take  the  two  groups  in 
order. 


Emotions  of 
quality. 


§  63.  Qualitative  Emotions.  —  All  these  emotions 
are  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant ;  the  situation  is 
either  agreeable  or  disagreeable.  Further :  each  of 
them  has  two  forms,  according  as  we  lay  stress  upon 


§  63.    Qualitative  Emotions  151 

the  situation  (objective  form)  or  upon  our  own  atti- 
tude to  the  situation  (subjective  form),  —  according, 
that  is,  as  we  think  more  of  the  facts  or  more  of  our- 
selves, who  are  experiencing  the  facts.  And  further : 
each  of  them  may  show  different  degrees  of  intensity, 
ranging  from  the  violence  of  passion  to  the  subdued 
calm  of  the  mood. 

We  may  now  proceed,  working  along  these  three  lines,  to 
make  out  a  list  of  the  chief  qualitative  emotions.  The 
names  of  pleasant  emotions  are  printed  in  capitals. 

The  most  general  forms  of  emotion  are  JOY  and  sorrow,   List  of  quali- 

LIKE  and  dislike.     It  will  readily  be  seen  that  the  first  pair  tetive  em°- 

tions. 
are  more  personal,  more  subjective,  than  the  second ;  we 

feel  joyful  or  sorrowful,  but  we  like  or  dislike  some  event,  — 
the  conduct  of  some  person,  or  the  appearance  of  some 
object. 

LIKE  and  dislike  take  on  different  forms,  again,  according 
as  their  object  is  personal  or  material.  When  they  refer  to 
persons,  they  become  SYMPATHY  and  antipathy ;  when  they 
refer  to  material  things,  ATTRACTION  and  repulsion. 

We  have,  then,  as  our  cardinal  emotions  : 

Subjective :  Objective : 

JOY,  sorrow  LIKE,  dislike 

(of persons)  (of  things) 

SYMPATHY,  antipathy    ATTRACTION,  repulsion ; 

and  can  base  our  Table  on  this  fourfold  foundation.  The 
more  objective  forms  are  printed  in  italics.  Where  there 
are  different  names  for  different  degrees  of  intensity  of  the 
same  emotion,  the  names  are  given  in  the  order  weaker  to 
stronger  :  thus  '  wretchedness '  is  stronger  than  '  melan- 
choly." 

Emotions  Moods 

(i)  JOY cheerfulness,  hilarity 

Sorrow,      \care  '**?*? 

grief       j  melancholy,  wretchedness  \  deJectlon>  gloom»  de~ 
<  (      pression 


152  Emotion 

(2)  LIKE          »        ...        .         .     content 

„.  ...          <  hate         ....     annoyance 
Dislike       \.      .  . 

(  loathing  ....     discontent 

(3)  SYMPATHY  (for  others) 

friendliness,  affection,  love  .         .  kindliness 
SYMPATHY  (for  oneself  or  others) 

j  anger,  wrath  .         .         .  retaliation 

(  contempt         .         .         .  superiority 

{aversion          .         .         .  irritability 
chagrin,  mortification,  ex- 
asperation, rage  .         .  sulkiness 
resentment,  baffled  anger, 
impotence    .         .         .  vexation,  soreness 

(4)  ATTRACTION,  delight         .         .         .     happiness,  charm 

(  repugnance,  horror          .  >  ,.       .  ,     . 
Repulsion  ->,  ,.  }•  dissatisfaction 

( disgust    .         .         .         . ) 

Notice  that  there  are  more  words  for  unpleasant  than  for 
pleasant  emotions  ;  so  that  the  Table  wears  a  ragged,  unbal- 
anced look.  Notice,  too,  that  the  words  do  not  all  seem  to 
fit  into  the  places  assigned  them ;  so  that  you  would  your- 
self, perhaps,  make  out  the  Table  differently.  Both  these 
facts  show  that  the  names  for  emotions  were  meant  to  serve 
only  a  rough,  practical  purpose,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to 
arrange  them  in  a  strictly  scientific  way. 

It  is  a  matter  of  common  experience  that  some  men  are 
moved  by  events  which  leave  others  unmoved  (cf.  §§  24, 
53).  Hence  language  has  coined  names  for  what  we  may 
call  '  moods  of  indifference.'  Indifference  to  joy  and  sor- 
row is  composure ;  to  like  and  dislike,  unconcern ;  to  sym- 
pathy and  antipathy,  apathy ;  to  attraction  and  repulsion, 
insensibility. 

The  reader  may  think  it  strange  that  anger  is  classed  under 
sympathy,  and  so  made  a  pleasant  emotion.  The  anger  here 
meant,  however,  is  '  generous  anger,1  '  righteous  indignation ' ; 
the  anger  that  we  feel  when  we  see  an  animal  cruelly  treated, 
or  believe  ourselves  to  have  been  unfairly  used.  In  such  cases 
we  'feel  strong1  and  breathe  deeply;  such  anger  is  pleasant. 


§  64.    Temporal  Emotions  153 

But  anger  that  is  mixed  with  hate  or  envy,  and  anger  that  is 
checked  by  the  feeling  of  weakness,  by  the  idea  that  we  cannot 
do  anything  to  prevent  the  wrong,  —  such  anger  is  unpleasant. 

We  shall  say  a  word  upon  the  question  of  'higher'  and 
'  lower '  feelings  in  §  96. 

§  64.  Temporal  Emotions.  —  The  temporal  emotions,  Emotions  of 
like  the  qualitative,  are  always  either  pleasant  or  un- 
pleasant. Depending  as  they  do,  however,  upon  the 
course  of  time,  they  are  constantly  tending  to  pass 
into  other  and  more  stable  forms.  Just  as  discords, 
in  music,  are  always  transitional,  and  must  be  '  re- 
solved '  upon  a  concord,  so  the  temporal  emotions 
are  transient  in  nature,  and  must  be  '  resolved '  upon 
qualitative  emotions.  Like  the  latter,  again,  they 
show  differences  of  intensity,  and  may  be  classified 
as  objective  and  subjective. 

It  is  usual  to  regard  expectation  and  surprise  as  the  two  Expectation 
fundamental  temporal  emotions.  Really,  however,  these  and  surprise 
terms  denote  states  of  consciousness,  not  emotions.  Expec- 
tation is  simply  an  anticipatory  attention,  —  attention  to  the 
idea  of  something  which  is  to  happen  in  the  future.  Sur- 
prise is  attention  to  an  idea  that  is  suddenly  presented,  and 
that  differs  from  the  ideas  forming  the  consciousness  of  the 
moment.  —  In  actual  experience,  expectation  and  surprise 
are  always  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant.  Looked  at  as 
affective  processes,  they  are  rightly  classed  with  the  emo- 
tions :  in  that  case,  however,  they  are  no  longer  called 
expectation  •  and  surprise,  but  receive  other  names.  In 
themselves,  as  states  of  consciousness,  they  are  no  more 
emotions  than  attention  is. 

The  following  Table  shows  the  relations  of  the  temporal  emotions 
to  one  another,  and  to  the  abstract  states  of  expectation  and  surprise. 
It  is  not  a  Table  of  origins  :  thus,  PLEASED  SURPRISE  need  have  no 
antecedent  fear  or  HOPE;  and  the  fear  or  HOPE,  if  it  does  precede, 
need  not  itself  spring  from  a  HOPE  or  fear  delayed.  The  three  emo- 
tions are,  however,  connected  in  the  manner  indicated. 


154 


Emotion 


List  of  tem- 

HOPE             [Expectation]                Fear 

poral  emo- 
tions 

(fulfilled)  (unfulfilled)  (delayed)     (fulfilled)  (unfulfilled)  (delayed) 

SATIS-    Disappoint-      Fear           Alarm       RELIEF        HOPE 

FACTION        ment 

[Surprise] 

(suddenly           (suddenly           (suddenly                  (suddenly 

fulfilled)           destroyed)          destroyed)                  fulfilled) 

Unpleasant           PLEASED          Unpleasant                PLEASED 

Surprise            SURPRISE            Surprise                 SURPRISE 

(becomes            (becomes            (becomes                 (becomes 

Alarm)              RELIEF)       Disappointment)      SATISFACTION) 

SATISFACTION  and  disappointment,  alarm  and  RELIEF,  are  the 

qualitative  processes  upon  which  the  temporal  are  'resolved.' 

Continuing  the  Table,  on  the  pattern  of  the  list  of  qualita- 

tive emotions,  we  have  : 

(i)  HOPE,  eager  anticipation         .         .        sanguineness 

p.       <  terror  .....         uneasiness 

(  dread   .....        apprehension 

(2)  SATISFACTION,  abundant  satisfaction        equableness 

Disappointment,  despair  .         .         .         sourness 

(3)  SURPRISE  \  astonishment,  amaze-  )                 , 

Surprise     >      ment          .         .       ) 

(4)  RELIEF  confidence 

Alarm      .         .         .          vague  discomfort,  consternation 

The  order  of 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  emotions  of  these  Tables 

emotive  de- 
velopment. 

belong  to  various  stages  or  strata  of  mental  development. 

It  is,  however,  very  difficult  to  arrange  them  in  the  order  of 

their  first  appearance.     The  earliest  emotions  are  probably 

a  vague  joy  and  a  vague  sorrow  ;  indefinite  hope  and  fear  ; 

and  pleasant  and  unpleasant  surprise.    These  are  all  seen  in 

very  young  children.     Next  come,  perhaps,  anger,  special- 

ised fear  (fear  of  something  definite),  affection  (fondness  for 

someone  or  something),  etc.     The  emotions  are  getting  to 

be  a  little  more  objective,  a  little  further  removed  from  the 

simpler  feeling.     At  a  third  level  come  sympathy  (as  friend- 

liness), and  still  more  specialised  and  objective  forms  of  the 

other  emotions. 

§  6s .    Mixed  Feelings  155 

§  65.  Mixed  Feelings.  —  We  came  to  the  conclusion  Areemotions 
in  §  27  (i)  that  "two  opposite  affections  cannot  ever  an" impu-asl 
be  in  consciousness  together."  The  total  feeling  of  a  antatthe 

same  time? 

given  moment  must  be  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant ; 
it  cannot  be  both.  Yet  we  find  many  references  in 
poetry  and  fiction  to  '  mixed  feelings,'  emotions  that 
are  at  once  pleasant  and  unpleasant.  When  Shake- 
speare makes  Desdemona  say: 

"  Something,  sure,  of  state  .  .  . 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit ;  and,  in  such  cases, 
Men's  natures  wrangle  with  inferior  things, 
Though  great  ones  are  their  object.     'Tis  even  so ; 
For  let  our  finger  ache,  and  it  indues 
Our  other  healthful  members  ev'n  to  that  sense 
Of  pain:"  — 

the  passage  is  entirely  in  agreement  with  our  pre- 
vious statement :  Othello  is  vexed,  apparently,  by 
state  affairs,  and  consequently  speaks  harshly  to  his 
wife,  —  just  as  the  unpleasantness  of  a  finger-cut 
puts  us  in  a  generally  uncomfortable  and  irritable 
frame  of  mind.  On  the  other  hand,  Juliet  says : 

"Parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow 
That  I  shall  say  good  night  till  it  be  morrow" :  — 

as  if  there  were  such  a  thing  as  a  joy-sorrow  emo- 
tion ;  and  in  King  John  we  have  this  dialogue  between 
Philip  and  Constance : 

"K.  Phi.   You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your  child. 
Const.   Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me, 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words,  .  .  . 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief :  "- 

as  if,  again,  there  were  such  a  thing  as  a  pleasant 
grief,  an  emotion  that  should  be  at  the  same  time 


1 56  Emotion 

pleasurable  and  unpleasurable.  How  are  we  to  ac* 
count  for  this  seeming  contradiction  ? 

The  question  of  the  existence  of  mixed  emotions 
is  an  old  one  in  psychology.  It  is  raised,  e.g.,  by 
David  Hume  (1711-1776)  —  who  has  been  called  the 
"most  subtle  metaphysician  of  Great  Britain" — in 
his  work  A  Treatise  of  Human  Nature. 

"  There  may  be  started,"  says  Hume,  "  a  very  curious  question 
concerning  the  contrariety  of  passions  [emotions],  which  is  our 
present  subject.  'Tis  observable,  that  where  the  objects  of  con- 
trary passions  are  presented  at  once,  it  sometimes  happens  that 
both  the  passions  exist  successively,  and  by  short  intervals ; 
sometimes,  that  they  destroy  each  other,  and  neither  of  them 
takes  place  ;  and  sometimes  that  both  of  them  remain  united  in 
the  mind." 

The  instance  given  of  a  quick  alternation  of  pleas- 
urable and  unpleasurable  emotion  is  this : 

"  When  a  man  is  afflicted  for  the  loss  of  a  law-suit,  and  joyful 
for  the  birth  of  a  son,  the  mind,  running  from  the  agreeable  to 
the  calamitous  object,  with  whatever  celerity  it  may  perform  this 
motion,  can  scarcely  temper  the  one  affection  with  the  other." 

That  is,  there  is  a  see-saw  of  joy  and  sorrow,  ac- 
cording as  the  situation  confronted  is  that  of  the  loss 
of  the  suit  or  the  birth  of  an  heir.  As  an  instance  of 
the  mutual  destruction  of  emotions,  we  might  sup- 
pose that,  of  two  equally  important  law-suits,  the  one 
was  lost  and  the  other  gained  on  the  same  day :  the 
balance  of  joy  and  sorrow  might  result  in  the  mood 
of  indifferent  composure.  Lastly,  for  his  instance  of 
united  contraries  Hume  has  recourse  to  the  temporal 
emotions.  Noticing  how  hope  and  fear  change  as 
the  '  degree  of  probability '  of  the  hoped  or  feared 
event  changes,  he  writes  :  "  The  passions  of  fear  and 
hope  are  mixtures  of  grief  and  joy." 


§  66.    Temperament  157 

Hume's  statement  of  the  question  is  entirely  cor-  which  is 
rect.  We  are  often  called  upon  to  confront  two  F 
situations,  the  one  of  which  would  of  itself  arouse 
joy,  and  the  other  sorrow.  But  when  this  happens 
there  are  two,  not  three  possibilities.  Either  the 
emotions  cancel  each  other  (the  two  law-suits),  or 
there  is  a  rapid  see-saw  of  the  attention  between 
the  situations  (law-suit  and  birth  of  son,  event  hoped 
and  event  feared).  Hume  has  noticed  the  difference  and  partly 
between  such  emotions  as  hope  and  fear,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  joy  and  sorrow,  on  the  other:  but  instead 
of  placing  them  in  different  groups,  as  qualitative 
and  temporal,  has  tried  to  explain  the  temporal  as 
mixtures  of  opposite  qualities.  Really,  the  only  sense 
in  which  we  may  use  the  phrase  '  mixed  emotion ' 
is  that  in  which  Professor  Sully  speaks  of  it,  when 
he  writes : 

"  A  tangle  of  agreeable  and  disagreeable  associates  results  in 
a  mixed  emotion,  in  which  now  the  pleasurable,  now  the  painful 
factor  is  uppermost." 

Juliet  is  alternately  glad  and  sorry ;  sorry  to  part 
from  Romeo,  but  glad  that  he  is  there,  as  her  lover, 
and  glad  in  the  thought  of  seeing  him  again.  Con- 
stance cannot  but  think  of  Arthur  (passive  attention). 
Thinking  of  him  as  he  was,  she  is  proud  and  joyous; 
then,  as  his  loss  comes  home  to  her,  her  grief  is  all 
the  more  bitter. 

For  another  instance  of  mixed  emotion,  cf.  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra, I.  ii.  174:  "This  grief  is  crowned  with  consolation." 

§  66.    Temperament.  —  It  is  usual  to  distinguish  four  The  four 

r      rr        .  .  .          r  tempera- 

types  of  affective  mental  constitution,  four    tempera-  mentSi 

ments.'    Minds  of  different  temperament  differ  in  two 


i58 


Emotion 


History  of 
the  doctrine 
of  tempera- 
ments. 


ways :  in  the  rapidity  with  which  thought  follows 
thought  in  the  'train  of  ideas,'  and  in  the  strength 
of  the  affection  which  colours  these  thoughts.  The 
temperaments  are  named  as  follows  : 

Quick  Thought  Slow  Thought 
Strong  Affection  CHOLERIC  MELANCHOLIC 
Weak  Affection  SANGUINE  PHLEGMATIC 


Temperaments 


The  history  of  the  doctrine  of  temperaments  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting  chapters  in  the  history  of  psychology. 
It  was  a  principal  tenet  of  the  old-world  physicians  —  a 
tenet  ascribed  to  the  great  Hippocrates,  the  father  of  medi- 
cine (B.C.  460-? 375) — that  the  human  body  contains  four 
humours  :  blood,  phlegm,  yellow  bile  and  black  bile.  And 
it  was  a  principal  tenet  of  the  physicists  that  there  are 
four  elementary  qualities  of  things  :  wet,  dry,  hot  and  cold. 
Another  famous  physician,  Galen  (A.D.  ?  130-?  200),  drew 
up  a  Table  of  temperaments  on  the  basis  of  these  four  quali- 
ties and  four  humours,  —  paying  more  regard  to  the  former, 
however,  than  to  the  latter.  In  the  further  progress  of 
medicine  Galen's  list  was  much  simplified,  and  the  humours 
came  to  the  front  again ;  each  humour  giving  its  name  to  a 
temperament.  So  we  have  : 


(Gk.  chole.) 
(Lat.  sanguts.) 
(Gk.  me/as,  black.) 
(Gk.  phlegtna.) 

The  hot  is  the  quick,  the  cold  the  slow  element ;  dryness 
and  moisture  correspond  to  strong  and  weak  feeling  respec- 
tively. But  it  was  some  time,  even  after  the  names  of  the 
temperaments  were  settled,  before  they  were  denned  exactly 
as  we  define  them  to-day.  The  melancholic  was  the  first  to 
be  accurately  characterised ;  then  the  choleric  was  sharply 
differentiated  from  it;  and  the  sanguine  and  phlegmatic 
recognised  last  of  all. 


Mixture  of 

Elements 

Humour 

Temperament 

warm-dry 

yellow  bile 

choleric 

warm-wet 

blood 

sanguine 

cold-dry 

black  bile 

melancholic 

cold-wet 

phlegm 

phlegmatic 

Questions  and  Exercises  159 

It  is  but  rarely  that  modern  fiction  gives  us  a  delineation  of 
a  pure  temperament ;  the  complexity  of  modern  life  has  brought 
with  it  a  corresponding  complexity  of  character.  At  the  same 
time,  most  standard  novels  show  us  approximations  to  pure 
temperaments,  especially  among  the  minor  figures  of  the  tale. 
Thus  in  The  Newcomes  Thackeray  has  drawn  Madame  de  Florae 
as  melancholic,  and  Fred  Bay  ham  as  choleric.  Mrs.  Hobson 
Newcome  is  sanguine ;  and  Rosey,  with  her  five  songs  and  her 
dulness  to  Warrington's  jokes,  with  her  unmoved  acceptance  of 
her  mother's  anger  and  her  uncle's  death,  is  a  good  instance  of 
the  phlegmatic  temperament. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

(1)  Describe  eight  situations  which  might  give  rise  to  the  eight 

cardinal  emotions. 

(2)  What  emotions  have  you  seen  shown  (a)  by  babies  and 

(£)  by  dogs  ?  Why  should  a  young  child  have  but  few 
emotions  ? 

(3)  Professor  Wundt,  noting  that  one  word  is  often  used  to 

designate  very  different  forms  of  emotion,  distinguishes 
six  kinds  of  anger : 

(a)  a  weak  kind,  a  strong  kind,  and  a  kind  that  is  alternately 

weak  and  strong ; 

(b)  a  kind  that  comes  to  a  head  slowly,  a  kind  that  arises 

very  quickly,  and  a  kind  that  comes  in  waves,  inter- 
mittently. 

He  further  says  that  the  bodily  signs  of  anger  may  be 
those  that  we  have  found  in  pleasurable  emotions,  those 
that  we  have  found  in  unpleasurable  emotions,  or  an 
alternation  of  both  sorts. 

Can  you  think  of  situations  that  would  call  forth  all 
these  different  forms  and  expressions  of  anger?  Is  it 
strictly  correct  to  call  the  emotion  'anger'  in  every  case? 
In  which  of  the  cases  does  the  *  anger '  differ  from  the 
anger  of  §  63  ? 

(4)  Fig.  14  gives  the  facial  expression  of  two  opposite  emotions, 

as  suggested  by  the  natural  philosopher  and  artist  Leonardo 
da  Vinci  (1452-1519).  What  are  the  emotions?  Can 
you  give  any  reasons  for  their  being  expressed  as  they 
are? 


160  Emotion 

(5)  Man  betrays  emotion  most  readily  by  movement  of  the  lips. 
How  do  dogs  and  horses  betray  it?  Can  you  give  any 
reason  for  the  difference  between  the  emotional  expression 
of  these  animals  and  of  man  ? 


FIG.  14 

(6)  How  would  you  explain  the  following  expressions  of  emotion 

or  mood?  — 

(a)  Sorrow:  features  are  lengthened,  'face  falls.' 

(b)  Sulkiness  :  lips  protrude,  in  '  pouting.' 

(c)  Superiority :   upper  lip  curls,  so  as  to  show  teeth,  in 

'  sneering.' 

(d)  Contempt:  eyes  are  half  closed. 

(e)  Contempt :  fingers  are  snapped. 

(f)  Disgust :  nose  wrinkles  and  '  turns  up.1 

(7)  One  of  the  old  Greek  philosophers,  Democritus,  said  that 

the  heart  was  the  organ  of  anger.  What  facts  could  have 
led  him  to  take  this  view  ?  Are  there  any  phrases  in  our 
own  language  that  point  to  a  similar  way  of  thinking  about 
anger?  And  about  other  emotions  than  anger?  [H.,  55.] 

References 

C.  Darwin,  The  Expression  of  the  Emotions  in  Man  and 
Animals.  2d  ed.,  1890.  Esp.  pp.  154-185  (on  weeping) 
and  pp.  207-222  (on  laughter). 

James,  Textbook,  ch.  xxiv. 

A.  Mosso,  Fear,  1896. 

Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  ii.,  pp.  56-121. 

Titchener,  Outline,  §§  57-60. 

Wundt,  Lectures,  pp.  367-377,  381-385. 

Wundt,  Outlines,  §§  12,  13. 


CHAPTER   IX 


§  67.  Movement  and  Action.  —  When  we  were  dis- 
cussing attention  and  emotion,  we  found  it  necessary 
to  describe  (§§  34,  60,  61)  certain  bodily  movements 
which  accompany  or  'express'  them.  We  were  in- 
terested in  these  movements  not  for  their  own  sake, 
but  for  the  sake  of  what  they  signified  or  expressed. 
We  found  that,  seeing  a  particular  set  of  movements, 
we  could  say  :  "  That  man  is  attentive  !  "  — and,  see- 
ing another  set :  "  That  man  is  afraid  !  "  We  were 
arguing,  so  to  speak,  from  outside  inwards ;  from 
movement  to  the  mental  processes  that  movement 
stands  for. 

We  have  now  to  look  at  movement  from  a  different  Movement 
point  of  view,  to  ask  what  movement  is,  on  its  psy-  ^oi^ai 
chological  side.  We  must  examine  it  for  its  own  sake,  phenome- 

.  non. 

working  from  inside  outwards,  —  that  is,  trying  to 
find  out  the  psychological  conditions  under  which 
movement  in  general  takes  place.  For  it  is  clear 
that  movement  is  of  the  very  highest  importance  in 
mental  life.  We  are  constantly  '  doing  '  something ; 
hoping,  fearing,  wishing,  avoiding,  resolving  to  do 
something,  and  feeling  glad,  sorry,  satisfied,  relieved 
that  the  something  is  done.  What,  now,  is  the  prob- 
lem that  '  doing  '  things  sets  to  psychology  ? 

Let  us  take  two  instances  of  bodily  movement, 
and  see  how  they  help  us  to  answer  this  question. 


1 62 


The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 


The  move- 
ments of 
swimming. 


Heart-beat. 


Action. 


(i)  Suppose  that  you  have  recently  learned  to  swim, 
and  that  you  wish  to  test  your  endurance  in  the 
water  by  swimming  from  one  boat  or  dock  to 
another.  You  hesitate  a  little ;  but  finally  resolve 
to  make  the  trial,  and  dive  in.  As  you  swim,  you 
'  feel '  the  resistance  of  the  water ;  you  exert  your- 
self, and  grow  tired ;  the  water  seems  to  get  thicker 
and  thicker,  and  your  body  to  become  heavier  and 
heavier,  as  you  near  the  goal.  —  In  this  case,  the 
movement  has  a  double  claim  upon  the  psychologist. 
In  the  first  place,  it  has  a  mental  antecedent ;  the  idea 
of  the  distance,  the  hesitation,  the  final  resolve,  —  all 
these  complex  mental  processes  precede  it :  they  are 
the  mental  circumstances  under  which  it  occurs,  its 
'conscious  conditions.'  In  the  second  place,  it  has 
mental  concomitants;  the  perception  of  resistance 
and  the  tiredness  come  at  the  same  time  with  the 
moving.  (2)  Now  consider,  by  way  of  contrast,  the 
movements  of  your  heart.  They  go  on  of  their  own 
accord,  without  any  antecedent  resolve ;  and  they  go 
on  for  the  most  part  unnoticed,  without  any  con- 
comitant sensations.  You  can  perceive  them  by  pur- 
posely attending  to  them ;  and  you  perceive  them 
when  you  are  angry  or  '  out  of  breath  ' ;  but  under 
ordinary  circumstances  they  are  not  '  felt '  at  all. 

A  movement  that  has  mental  antecedents  (con- 
scious conditions)  and  mental  concomitants  is  termed 
an  action ;  and  the  problem  which  '  doing  things ' 
sets  to  psychology  is  that  of  tracing  out  the  various 
sets  of  processes  which  can  serve  as  the  conscious 
condition  of  the  various  forms  of  action.  Movements 
of  the  second  kind  (of  heart,  lungs,  blood,  intestines, 


§  68.  Conscious  Condition  of  Primitive  Action    163 

etc.)  are  termed  'movements'  simply.  They  have 
no  place  in  psychology  as  movements,  for  their  own 
sake :  we  have  to  take  account  of  them  only  when 

(1)  they  are  the  bodily  conditions  of  organic  sensa- 
tions (§  21),  or  when  (2)  they  'express'  particular 
mental  processes  (feeling,  emotion).     Looked  at  as 
movements,  there  is   nothing   about   them  for  psy- 
chology to  lay  hold  of ;    we  either  do  not  perceive 
them  at  all,  or  merely  perceive  the  sensations  aroused 
by  them  while  they  are  actually  performed. 

§  68.   The  Conscious  Condition  of  Primitive  Action.  —  Attention  the 
The  one  thing  necessary  for  action,  in  the  mind  of  ^""of00 
the  primitive  organism,  was  attention.     When  the  ani-  actlon- 
mal's  attention  was  caught  by  an  object,  no  matter 
what  the  object  might  be,  it  moved :  moved  towards, 
if  the  object  affected  it  pleasantly;   moved  from,  if 
the  object  were  unpleasant.     In.  other  words :  every 
time  that  a  complete  consciousness  was  formed,  — 
a  consciousness,  that   is,   consisting  of  (i)  an  idea 

(2)  attended  to  and  therefore  (3)  felt, — there  was 
corresponding  movement  of  the  whole  body. 

We  call  this  consciousness  a  'complete  consciousness* 
because  it  contains  both  of  the  mental  elements,  sensation 
and  affection,  and  contains  them  in  the  form  of  concrete 
processes  (idea  and  feeling)  running  their  course  in  the 
state  of  attention.  All  the  requirements  of  a  full  conscious- 
ness are  thus  met.  In  the  interval  between  two  attentions, 
the  primitive  consciousness  was  composed  of  a  vague  blur 
of  what  we  must  term  organic  sensations,  with  no  reference 
to  the  world  outside  of  the  body. 

There  are  three  points  to  observe  here. 

Notice  (i)  that  action  affords  a  good  illustration  of  the  state-   Mind  and 
ment  made  in  §  38  that  "  mind  developes  in  close  interaction  with   nature- 


1 64 


The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 


The  function 
of  a  nervous 
system. 


Why  psy- 
chology 
came  late  to 
the  study  of 
attention. 


nature."  There  is  a  physical  or  natural  side  to  the  phenomenon 
that  we  are  considering  from  the  psychological  side.  When  a 
full  consciousness  is  formed  (psychology),  then  the  animal  moves 
(physics  or  biology).  And  the  appropriateness  of  its  response 
to  different  stimuli  is  an  expression  of  the  law  that  all  perceptions 
must  possess  a  meaning. 

(2)  We  can  now  understand  how  it  is  that  all  nervous  systems 
are  constructed  on  the  same  plan.     The  function  of  a  primitive 
nervous  system  is  simply  to  take  in  and  send  out:  what  comes  in 
as  impression  goes  out  into  movement.     The  function  of  a  more 
highly  developed  nervous  system  is  to  take  in,  to  work  over,  and 
then  to  send  out :  what  comes  in  as  impression  still  goes  out  into 
movement,  but  does  not  go  out  immediately  ;  the  incoming  excita- 
tion is  worked  over  at  the  centre  of  the  system,  and  sent  out  per- 
haps into  movement  of  the  whole  body,  perhaps  into  movement  of 
a  limb  or  part  of  a  limb,  perhaps  into  movement  of  the  internal 
bodily  organs,  of  heart  and  blood,  etc.      The  principle  of  the 
nervous  system  is  the  same,  but  its  working  has  grown  more 
complicated.      A  famous  neurologist,  Dr.   Hughlings   Jackson, 
sums  up  the  functions  of  the  brain  by  saying:    "All  nervous 
centres,  from  the  lowest  to  the  very  highest,  are  made  up  of 
nothing  else  than  nervous  arrangements  representing  impressions 
and  movements.     I  do  not  see  of  what  other  materials  the  brain 
can  be  made." 

(3)  We  can  understand,  also,  how  it  comes  about  that  in  the 
older  works  upon  psychology  attention  is  not  discussed,  as  a 
state  of  consciousness  that  has  special  features  and  special  con- 
ditions, but  is  simply  taken  for  granted.     We  may  be  sure  that 
no  object  of  the  world  outside  the  body  would  be  perceived  by 
the  primitive  organism  that  was  not  at  the  same  time  felt  (at- 
tended to).     The  natural  or  normal  perception  is  the  perception 
given  in  the  state  of  attention  ;  indifferent  perceptions,  percep- 
tions of  objects  not  attended  to.  are  a  later  growth,  the  result  of 
the  multiplication  of  sense-organs  and  of  the  consequent  com- 
plexity of  consciousness.     So  we  ourselves,  when  we  think  of  a 
sensation  — '  blue '  or '  sweet '  —  naturally  think  of  it  as  it  is  when 
we  attend  to  it.     The  older  school  of  psychology  had  not  passed 
beyond  this  '  natural '  attitude  to  sensations  and  perceptions,  and 
therefore  took  attention  for  granted. 

Do  not  suppose  that  the  primitive  consciousness  was  split  up, 
as  clearly  and  sharply  as  ours  is,  into  a  sensation-side  and  an 


§  69.    Impulse :  the  Idea  of  Own  Movement    165 

affection-side.  We,  looking  back  over  the  history  of  mind,  can 
see  that  sensation  and  affection  were  both  represented  in  the 
very  earliest  mind ;  but  none  the  less  that  mind  was  a  one-tissue 
mind  (§  48),  a  mind  whose  processes  were  neither  sensations 
nor  affections,  but  rudimentary  sensation-affections. 

The  conscious  conditions  of  a  particular  action  are 
usually  summed  up  in  one  word,  —  the  word  motive.  Motive  is 
Thus  the  motive  to  the  primitive  action  that  we  have 
just  been  considering  would  be  the  felt  (attended  to) 
perception  of  an  object.  It  is  evident,  from  this  single 
illustration,  that  every  motive  may  be  looked  at  from 
two  different  points  of  view :  stress  may  be  laid  upon 
its  sense-side  (the  perception)  or  upon  its  affective 
side.  When  we  are  thinking  of  the  former,  we  speak 
of  the  inducement  to  act;  when  we  are  thinking  of  inducement 
the  latter,  the  pleasantness  or  unpleasantness  of  the 
inducement,  we  speak  of  the  incentive  to  act.  The  incentive. 
whole  motive,  the  sum  of  conscious  conditions,  is 
made  up  of  an  inducement  and  an  incentive,  present 
in  consciousness  together.  Thus  a  thief  is  induced 
to  steal  by  the  sight  of  a  loaf ;  the  incentive  to  the 
theft  is  the  unpleasant  feeling  of  hunger. 

The  typical  motive  to  human  action,  the  motive  from 
which  all  others  may  be  derived,  is  called  impulse.     We   Impulse, 
proceed  now  to  discuss  the  impulse  in  detail,  and   shall 
then  treat  of  three  degenerate  forms  of  impulsive  action,  — 
instinctive  action,  ideomotor  action  and  reflex  movement. 

§  69.   Impulse :  The  Idea  of  Own  Movement.  —  Sup-  Formation  of 
pose  that  an  organism  has  moved,  under  the  condi-  onVSown 
tion  described  in  the  foregoing  Section,  the  condition  movement, 
of  attention  or  (for  we  saw  that  the  two  expressions 
were  in  this  case  identical)  of  a  full  consciousness. 
When  the  movement  is  over,  the  animal  will  have 


i66 


The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 


Function  of 
this  idea. 


Composition 
of  motive. 


had  a  new  perception,  and  so  have  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  a  new  idea,  —  the  perception  or  idea  of  its 
own  movement.  When  next  it  attends,  this  idea  of 
own  movement  will  be  simultaneously  associated  to 
the  perception  of  the  object  attended  to :  the  animal 
will  attend  not  merely  to  the  object,  but  to  the  object 
plus  the  idea  of  own  movement.  And  as  the  asso- 
ciation of  perception-of -object  and  idea-of -movement 
is  strengthened  by  every  instance  of  actual  move- 
ment, —  every  time  that  the  animal  moves,  it  experi- 
ences anew  the  perception  of  own  movement,  —  this 
idea  comes  to  play  a  very  important  part  in  the  mass 
of  idea  and  feeling  that  makes  up  the  conscious  con- 
dition of  movement  in  general. 

For  remember  what  the  very  earliest  movement 
was  :  just  a  rough,  unregulated  movement  towards 
or  away  from  an  object.  It  is  a  far  cry  from  move- 
ments of  this  sort  to  the  precise,  definite,  accurate 
movements  that  we  make ;  such  movements  as  those 
of  picking  up  a  pin,  or  counting  out  money,  or  writ- 
ing, or  using  knife  and  fork.  Now  the  idea  of  pre- 
vious movement  gives  the  organism  a  pattern  or  copy 
of  movement,  —  a  copy  to  be  closely  followed,  if  it  be 
the  idea  of  a  satisfactory  movement,  and  a  pattern  to 
be  avoided,  if  the  original  movement  proved  unsatis- 
factory. We  may  say,  then,  that  when  the  idea  of 
past  movement  comes  to  be  contained  in  the  con- 
scious conditions  of  action,  action  is  on  its  way  to 
be  precise  and  accurate. 

If  we  sum  up  the  conscious  conditions  of  action  at  this 
stage  of  mental  development,  we  have  : 
(a)  Perception  of  object ; 


§  70.    Impulse:  the  Idea  of  Result  167 

(£)  Idea  of  own  movement,  connected  with  the  percep- 
tion by  way  of  simultaneous  association  ; 

(f)  Affection  accompanying  the  perception  and  idea. 
Since  the  complex  which  the  affection  colours  is  a  group  of 
processes  held  together  by  simultaneous  association,  the 
whole  sum  of  conditions  will  be  of  the  nature  of  an  emotion 
(§  58).  This  means  that  there  will  be  a  fourth  factor  in  the 
list: 

(</)  Organic  sensations,  set  up  by  the  bodily  expression 
of  the  affection. 

We  will  work  out  these  conditions,  in  two  actual  cases.     The   Instances  of 
one  shall  be  a  case  of  impulse  towards,  the  other  a  case  of  im-   motives, 
pulse  away  from. 

(1)  Suppose  that  an  animal  perceives,  by  sight  or  smell,  the 
near  presence  of  food.     It  moves  impulsively  towards  the  food, 
and  takes  it.     What  is  inducement  here,  and  what  incentive  ? 

The  inducement  is  made  up  of  (a)  the  food-perception,  which 
is  at  once  reinforced  by  (£)  the  idea  of  own  movement  towards 
the  food-stuff  and  (d)  the  organic  sensations  accompanying  the 
pleasant  incentive.  This  incentive  is  made  up  of  (c)  the  pleas- 
antness of  the  food-perception  plus  the  pleasantness  of  the  move- 
ment-idea. 

(2)  Suppose  that  the  animal  perceives,  by  sight  or  hearing, 
the  near  presence  of  an  enemy.     It  moves  impulsively  away  from 
the  source  of  danger. 

The  inducement  is  made  up  of  (a)  the  enemy-perception,  which 
is  at  once  supplemented  by  (£)  the  idea  of  own  movement  away 
from  the  danger  and  (d)  the  organic  sensations  accompanying 
the  unpleasant  incentive.  This  unpleasantness  is  (c)  that  of  the 
danger-perception,  plus  the  unpleasantness  of  the  idea  of  move- 
ment (i.e.,  of  the  idea  of  shrinking,  giving  way,  being  balked  or 
interrupted). 

§  70.    Impulse  :    The   Idea   of   Result.  —  We   spoke  Formation  ol 

.  ...  •   f  >  tne  idea  of 

just  now  of  '  satisfactory    and  '  unsatisfactory    move-  result  of 
ments.     A  movement  is  satisfactory  when  it  leads  to  movement, 
a  satisfactory  result,  and  unsatisfactory  when  it  ends 
unsatisfactorily.     No  action  can  be  performed  without 


1 68 


The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 


Function  of 
this  idea. 


Instances. 


accomplishing  or  failing  to  accomplish  something; 
and  no  result  can  follow  an  action  without  leaving 
an  idea  of  itself  in  the  agent's  mind,  which  may  come 
up  again  when  the  next  occasion  for  action  arises. 
So  we  have  a  further  complication  of  the  impulse- 
motive  :  the  perception-side  of  it  (the  inducement)  is 
enriched  by  the  idea  of  the  result  of  movement,  and 
the  affective  side  (the  incentive)  by  the  pleasure  which 
this  idea  brings. 

The  presence  of  an  idea  of  result  in  the  motive 
helps  the  organism  to  make  its  movements  precise 
and  accurate,  —  hastens  the  work  already  begun  by 
the  idea  of  own  movement.  A  particular  movement- 
idea  is  acted  out,  and  a  good  result  follows.  The 
accomplishing  of  the  result  directs  attention  back 
again  to  the  movement-idea  which  led  to  it;  and 
this  idea  is  remembered,  becomes  a  pattern  which 
may  be  copied  later.  On  the  other  hand,  if  a  move- 
ment-idea is  acted  out  and  a  bad  result  follows,  atten- 
tion is  directed  to  that  movement-idea,  which  becomes 
unpleasant ;  and  the  result  is  that,  in  future,  that 
particular  movement  will  be  shunned.  So  the  idea 
of  result  acts  as  a  sort  of  overseer,  weeding  out  the 
useless  movement-ideas,  and  planting  firmly  in  the 
animal's  nervous  system  the  physical  arrangements 
for  the  performance  of  useful  movements,  move- 
ments that  take  it  straight  to  the  desired  goal. 

Our  two  instances  are  now  a  little  more  complicated,  (i)  The 
inducement  to  take  the  food  is  made  up  of  food-perception,  idea 
of  movement  and  ideas  of  taste  and  satiety  (the  result  of  taking 
it) ;  the  incentive  is  made  up  of  the  pleasure  of  food-perception, 
the  pleasure  of  the  idea  of  movement  and  the  pleasure  of  the 
ideas  of  taste  and  satiety.  (2)  The  inducement  to  flee  the  dan- 


§  70.    Impulse:   The  Idea  of  Result          169 

ger  is  made  up  of  the  object-perception,  the  idea  of  movement 
away  and  the  idea  of  escape  from  bodily  injury  (the  result  of 
running)  ;  the  incentive  is  the  resultant  of  the  unpleasantness 
of  object-perception,  idea  of  injury,  and  movement-idea,  and  the 
pleasantness  of  idea  of  escape  :  it  is,  therefore,  a  pleasantness  or 
an  unpleasantness,  according  to  circumstances. 

If,  then,   one  were  asked  to  define  impulse,  one  Definition  of 
would  say:  'Impulse  is  a  motive  to  action,  made  up  Impu    ' 
of  three  sense-processes  (perception  of   object,  idea 
of   own   movement,    idea   of    result   of    movement). 
This  complex,  held   together  by  simultaneous  asso- 
ciation, is  given  in  the  state  of  passive  attention,  and 
is  therefore  accompanied  by  affection.' 

The  complete  impulse,  the  impulse  with  threefold  induce-  impulse  and 
ment,  is  still  more  like  an  emotion  than  is  the  simpler  set  of  e 
movement  conditions  which  we  discussed  in  §  69.  Hence 
we  can  readily  understand  Professor  Wundt's  statement 
that  "  every  impulse  is  at  the  same  time  emotion,"  and 
the  corresponding  statement  of  Dr.  Lehmann,  a  Danish 
psychologist  who  has  made  a  special  study  of  the  affective 
processes,  that  "  every  emotion  is  at  the  same  time  impulse." 
It  is  not  that  emotion  and  impulse  are  identical  (in  that  case 
there  would  be  no  reason  for  the  use  of  the  two  words),  but  that 
each  of  them  overlaps  the  other.  We  have  just  had  a  par- 
allel instance.  At  first,  as  we  saw  in  §  68,  attention  means 
action ;  or,  as  Professor  Sully  puts  it :  "  The  primitive  form 
of  activity  is  at  once,  according  to  the  aspect  in  which  we 
view  it,  both  attention  and  conscious  muscular  action." 
Now,  however,  it  is  only  attention  to  a  particular  set  of 
ideas  that  means  action ;  so  that  we  have  to  discuss  atten- 
tion and  action  in  separate  Chapters.  At  first,  in  the  same 
way,  there  was  no  difference  between  impulse  and  emotion ; 
"  the  universal  animal  impulses  are  indubitably  the  earliest 
forms  of  emotion."  Now  the  two  are  so  far  distinct  that 
we  have  to  treat  of  them  separately;  but  they  still  have 
much  in  common. 


I/O 


The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 


Degenera- 
tion of  the 
impulse : 


loss  of  idea 
of  own  move- 
ment: 


There  are  two  chief  differences  between  the  emotion  and 
the  impulse,  (i)  The  impulse  has  about  it  more  effort  than 
the  emotion.  The  effort  comes  from  the  idea  of  own  move- 
ment (cf.  §  34).  And  (2)  the  bodily  expression  of  impulse 
is  a  particular  movement  (reaching  out  the  hand,  running 
away)  ;  that  of  emotion  is  a  diffused  movement,  a  disturb- 
ance of  the  internal  organs  and  of  the  whole  muscular 
system. 

§  71.  Psychomotor  Action. — Just  as  the  impulse  was 
bound  to  arise  from  the  bare,  primitive  form  of 
action, — just  as  the  inducement  to  action,  that  is, 
was  bound  to  grow  from  simple  object-perception  to 
a  mixture  of  this  with  the  ideas  of  own  movement 
and  of  result,  —  so  is  it  bound  to  degenerate,  to  fall 
back  again  into  simpler  forms.  And  the  degenera- 
tion is  very  useful.  Suppose  that  we  were  obliged 
to  attend  to  this  threefold  group  of  perception  and 
ideas  every  time  that  we  performed  an  action,  every 
time  that  we  cut  a  slice  of  bread  or  buttoned  our 
coat!  There  would  be  an  immense  loss  of  time  and 
energy.  And  we  have  now  gone  far  enough  into 
psychology  to  know  that,  in  the  sphere  of  mind,  time 
and  energy  are  not  wasted ;  wherever  a  '  short  cut ' 
can  be  taken,  it  is  followed. 

So  the  impulse  degenerates.  In  the  first  place, 
the  idea  of  own  movement  drops  out  of  the  motive. 
That  idea  is  valuable  'so  long  as  the  movement  is 
being  learned,  being  modelled  after  the  pattern;  it 
ceases  to  be  valuable  when  the  movement  has  been 
learned,  and  can  be  performed  without  thought  of 
the  copy.  The  copy,  the  movement-idea,  then  dis- 
appears ;  it  no  longer  means  anything  to  the  organ- 


§  72.    Reflex  Movement  171 

ism,  —  and  an  idea  owes  its  life  to  meaning  something 
(§  38).  Secondly,  the  idea  of  result  becomes  ab- 
sorbed, so  to  speak,  in  the  perception  of  the  object  : 
when  we  see  the  knife,  we  see  it  as  a  bread-cutter, 
and  when  we  take  hold  of  a  coat-button,  we  grasp  it  reduction  of 

T-1  •  1  'dea  °f 

as  a  coat-buttoner.     The  idea  of  result  comes  to  be  resuit; 

merely  a   sort  of   tag,  stuck  on  to  the  perception. 

And   thirdly,  while  these   two    changes   are   taking 

place,   the    perception    is   becoming   indifferent;    so  lossofaffec- 

far  are  we  from  attending  to  it  passively,  as  we  did 

originally,  that  we  fail  to  attend  to  it  at  all. 

At  this  stage  we  have  an  action  whose  conscious  Sensonmotor 

or  ideomotor 

condition  is  a  perception,  which  has  a  mere  tag  of  action. 
idea  of  result  associated  to  it,  and  which  is  not  felt 
(not  attended  to).     Movement  occurs  directly  on  the 
occurrence  of  the  perception.     Such  action  is  termed 
sensonmotor  or  ideomotor  action. 

Professor  James  gives  the  following  instance  of  a  sensorimotor 
action  :  "  I  sit  at  table  after  dinner  and  find  myself  from  time  to 
time  taking  nuts  or  raisins  out  of  the  dish  and  eating  them.  My 
dinner  properly  is  over,  and  in  the  heat  of  the  conversation  I  am 
hardly  aware  of  what  I  do  ;  but  the  perception  of  the  fruit  [object] 
and  the  fleeting  notion  that  I  may  eat  it  [result  of  movement] 
seem  fatally  to  bring  the  act  about." 

§  72.   Reflex  Movement.  —  We  have  only  to  carry  Total  dis- 
the  development  that  leads  from  impulsive  to  psycho- 


motor  action  one  step  farther,  and  we  come  to  reflex  as  motive  to 

action. 

movement.  The  motive  to  psychomotor  action  is  a 
decayed  and  indifferent  impulse.  To  reflex  move- 
ment there  is  no  motive  at  all.  The  impulse  has  died 
out  altogether  ;  there  is  no  perception  of  object,  no 
idea  of  result,  however  dim  and  fleeting.  The  move- 
ment has  become,  by  long  habit,  ingrained  in  the 


172  The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 

make-up  of  the  nervous  system  ;  so  that  when  a 
stimulus  is  presented,  movement  follows,  without  the 
arousal  of  any  mental  process  ;  the  ingoing  excitation 
is  turned  back,  reflected  outwards,  in  the  form  of 
movement,  —  the  whole  series  of  events  taking  place 
quite  automatically  and  unconsciously. 
From  the  A  good  illustration  of  the  passage  from  impulsive  action 


to  to  reflex  movement  is  given  by  the  closing  of  the  eyelids, 
winking.  You  may  wink  impulsively  ;  perceiving  the  offen- 
sive object,  having  a  distinct  idea  of  the  movement,  and 
realising  the  result  to  be  attained  (the  freeing  of  the  eye 
from  dust,  an  insect,  etc.).  Or  you  may  wink  inattentively  ; 
vaguely  perceiving  the  insect,  and  still  more  vaguely  ideating 
the  result  of  the  closure  of  the  eye.  This  is  psychomotor 
action.  Or,  lastly,  the  wink  may  be  a  reflex  ;  you  may  wink 
without  seeing  the  insect,  or  thinking  at  all  of  the  movement 
or  its  result,  —  you  may  wink,  that  is,  without  in  the  least 
knowing  that  the  eyelids  have  moved.  As  one  reads  a  book, 
one  often  winks  to  cleanse  the  surface  of  the  eyeball  :  but 
there  is  absolutely  no  knowledge  of  the  movement. 

The  involun-  The  most  reflex  reflexes,  those  that  are  farthest  removed  from 
tary  bodily  the  impulse,  are  the  internal  movements  of  heart,  blood,  intestines, 
movements.  ^^  ^^  wg  spoke  Qf  jn  §  ^  jt  ^  very  difficult  for  us  to  think 
of  the  movement  of  the  blood  through  the  blood-vessels,  or  of 
the  digestive  movements  of  the  alimentary  canal,  as  having  once 
depended  upon  conscious  conditions,  upon  attention  and  ideas  ; 
and  indeed,  it  would  be  absurd  to  think  of  them  in  their  present 
form  a*  possibly  springing  from  any  motive.  But  nevertheless 
they  are  descendants  of  the  primitive  action  of  §  68  ;  they  have 
been  slowly  differentiated  out  of  the  whole-body  movements  of 
early  organisms  ;  so  that  their  ancestors,  if  we  may  so  call  them, 
really  had  conscious  conditions  and  really  did  spring  from  motives. 
We  said  in  §  67  that  these  movements  come  into  psychology 
only  indirectly,  as  the  conditions  of  sensation  or  the  expression^ 
of  affective  processes.  We  must  here  add  to  this  that  they  come 
into  psychology  historically.  They  are  now  physiological  ;  but 
at  one  period  of  their  history  they  had  psychological  conditions. 


§  73-    Instinctive  Action  173 

On  reflex  movements  in  general  see  H.,  287,  299 ;  -F.,  144  ff., 
698  ff. 

§  73.    Instinctive  Action.  —  There  are  some  move-  instinctive 
ments,  movements  of  a  complicated  sort,  which  must  Movement, 
be  made  at  least  once  by  every  member  of  an  animal 
species  in  every  generation.     Caterpillars  must  spin 
their  cocoon ;  birds  build  their  nest ;  flies  seek  out  the 
fitting  place  to  lay  their  eggs.     These  movements, 
like  the  reflexes,  are  touched  off  mechanically;  no 
motive   is   necessary.     They    have    sometimes   been 
described  as  '  compound  reflexes.' 

But  instinctive  movement  differs  from  reflex  move- 
ment in  the  fact  that  the  moving  is  pleasant  (attended 
to).  The  reflex  has  neither  mental  antecedents  nor 
mental  concomitants;  the  instinctive  movement  has 
well-marked  mental  concomitants.  To  quote  Pro- 
fessor James  again : 

"Every  step  of  every  instinct  shines  with  its  own  sufficient 
light,  and  seems  at  the  moment  the  only  eternally  right  and 
proper  thing  to  do.  It  is  done  for  its  own  sake  exclusively. 
What  voluptuous  thrill  may  not  shake  a  fly,  when  she  at  last  dis- 
covers the  one  particular  leaf,  or  carrion,  or  bit  of  dung,  that  out 
of  all  the  world  can  stimulate  her  ovipositor  to  its  discharge? 
Does  not  the  discharge  then  seem  to  her  the  only  fitting  thing? 
And  need  she  care  or  know  anything  about  the  future  maggot 
and  its  food?" 

The  reasons  both  for  the  likenesses  and  for  the  Explanation 
differences  between  reflex  and  instinctive  movements 
are  not  far  to  seek.  The  instinctive  movements  are 
being  continually  repeated,  whether  by  the  individual 
animal  or  by  the  species;  hence,  like  the  reflexes, 
they  become  stereotyped  by  habit  in  the  nervous  sys- 
tem of  the  species.  On  the  other  hand,  they  are  too 


174 


The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 


Instinctive 
action:  the 
instinct  as 
motive. 


Composition 
of  instinct. 


important  to  be  left  entirely  without  control.  The 
motive,  the  impulse,  has  been  lost,  and  with  it  the 
controlling  ideas  of  own  movement  and  of  result :  this 
loss  is  inevitable,  if  the  movements  are  to  be  stereo- 
typed. The  motive  is  replaced,  however,  by  the 
mental  concomitants,  the  organic  sensations  aroused 
by  moving.  Their  pleasantness  keeps  the  movement 
going,  and  holds  it  in  the  right  channels. 

So  far,  the  development  has  been  downhill :  from 
impulsive  action,  with  its  elaborate  motive  and  con- 
comitant sensations,  to  instinctive  movement,  which 
has  lost  its  motive  and  whose  concomitant  sensations 
are  therefore  made  a  great  deal  of.  Now  the  devel- 
opment takes  an  upward  turn.  Suppose  that  an 
animal  that  has  once  performed  an  instinctive  move- 
ment (say,  nest-building)  has  to  repeat  it  at  some 
future  time.  Plainly,  the  second  movement  will  have 
a  motive ;  there  will  be  an  idea  of  own  movement,  an 
idea  of  result  and  an  idea  (if  not  a  perception)  of 
object.  Instinctive  movement  has  grown  into  in- 
stinctive action,  an  action  whose  conscious  conditions 
differ  but  very  little  from  those  of  impulsive  action. 
And  the  instinct  itself,  the  conscious  condition  of  the 
action,  will  become  clearer  and  more  definite  with 
every  repetition. 

If  we  divide  the  instinct  into  inducement  and  incentive, 
we  get  the  following  list  of  processes  : 

Inducement.  —  Idea  of  object,  idea  of  own  movement, 
idea  of  result,  idea  of  organic  sensations  which  will  be  aroused 
by  moving. 

Incentive.  —  Pleasantness  of  all  these  ideas,  the  pleasant- 
ness of  the  anticipated  organic  sensations  being  much  the 
strongest. 


§74-  Physiology  and  Psychology  of  Movement    175 

Instinct,  like  impulse,  evidently  bears  a  marked  resem-   instinct  and 
blance  to  emotion.     The  ideas  in  it  are  held  together  by  emotion- 
simultaneous  association ;  the  complex  is  passively  attended 
to ;  and  the  organic  sensations  are  prominent  in  the  whole. 
Hence  we  find  Dr.  Lehmann  saying  :  "  Every  emotion  is  at 
the  same  time  instinct "  ;  and  Professor  James  declaring  that 
"  every  instinct  is  an  impulse,"  and  that  "  every  object  that 
excites  an  instinct  excites  an  emotion  as  well."     Again,  of 
course,  the  processes  are  not  identical,  but  run  into  and  cut 
across  each  other  in  actual  experience. 

§  74.    The  Physiology  and  the  Psychology  of  Move-  The  simplest 

, , ,,  i        •    i       •   A  .    .       is  not  neces- 

ment.  —  When  the  physiologist  sets  to  work  to  explain  sarily  the 
the  mechanism  of  movement,  to  find  out  what  sort  ^riiest  form 

of  move- 

of  bodily  disturbance  is  necessary  to  make  a  muscle  ment. 
contract,  he  naturally  begins  by  examining  the  sim- 
plest form  of  movement,  the  reflex.  Having  found 
the  conditions  of  this,  he  seeks  to  account  for 
more  complex  movements,  —  sensorimotor  and  ideo- 
motor  action,  impulsive  action,  etc.  Working  in  this 
way,  from  the  reflex  upwards,  he  is  very  apt  to 
think  that  the  reflex,  the  simplest  form  of  move- 
ment, is  therefore  the  earliest  form  ;  and  that  psycho- 
motor  and  impulsive  action  have  grown  out  of  it, 
one  complication  being  added  after  another.  Nor 
have  the  physiologists  stood  alone  in  this  opinion. 
Not  a  few  psychologists,  studying  movement  from 
the  same  point  of  view,  have  fallen  into  the  same 
error. 

But  how  do  we  know  that  it  is  an  error?  Have 
we  not  been  taking  things  for  granted,  in  this  Chap- 
ter, —  asserting  that  the  earliest  movements  have 
conscious  conditions,  and  that  unmotived  movements 
are  later  growths,  rather  than  proving  our  assertions  ? 


than  impul- 
sive action. 


1/6  The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 

Yes :  and  we  must,  therefore,  now  that  our  survey 
is  ended  for  the  time  being,  pause  to  set  down  the 
arguments  which  justify  our  position.  They  are  as 
follows. 

Reflex  move-  (x)  Reflex  and  instinctive  movements  are  purposive  in 
ment  is  later  character ;  that  is,  are  adapted  to  some  particular  purpose, 
cut  to  fit  certain  circumstances  (.//.,  288).  Think  of  the 
appropriateness  of  the  winking  reflex  for  the  removal  of 
impurities  from  the  surface  of  the  eyeball !  Primitive  move- 
ment, on  the  contrary,  would  be  vague,  indefinite,  inappro- 
priate. Hence  the  reflex  must  be  a  late  development,  not 
a  primitive  movement-form. 

(2)  Many  of  the  reflex  movements  that  express  emotion 
can  be  understood  only  on  the  hypothesis  that  they  are 
degenerate  descendants  of  impulsive  (or  even  more  compli- 
cated) actions.     Think,  e.g.,  of  the  jump  and  wince  of  §  60. 

(3)  Impulsive  action  may  be  reduced  to  reflex  movement 
in  the  course  of  the  individual  life.     (This  fact,  of  which 
we  have  all  had  experience,  will   be  discussed  in  §  106). 
On  the  other  hand,  we  never  find  in  individual  experience 
that  a  reflex  movement  passes  into  impulsive  action. 

(4)  The  results  of  animal  psychology  (§  119)  accord  well 
with  the  theory  that  the  impulse  precedes  the  reflex  in  men- 
tal evolution. 

Some  investigators  (A.  Binet,  La  vie  psychique  des  micro- 
organismes,  1891)  declare  that  the  movements  of  single-celled 
organisms  are  all  actions ;  the  creatures  are  selective,  single  out 
their  food  from  the  rest  of  their  surroundings,  —  evince  passive 
attention.  Others  (M.  Verworn,  Psychophysiol.  Protistenstu- 
dien,  1889)  think  that  most  of  these  actions  are  reflexes,  only  a 
few  being  dimly  conscious,  rudimentary  impulsive  actions.  We 
can  accept  either  statement :  the  single-celled  organism  is  primi- 
tive, but  has  an  immense  series  of  ancestors  behind  it.  It  may, 
then,  have  retained  the  primitive  type  of  action  (Binet),  or  it 
may,  in  certain  movements,  have  taken  the  downward  path 
towards  the  reflex  (Verworn).  It  has  recently  been  maintained 
by  A.  Bethe  (Pfluger^s  Archiv,  1898)  that  ants  and  bees  are 
mere  automata,  —  reflex  machines.  If  they  are,  we  cannot  but 
infer  from  the  delicacy  and  nicety  of  their  movements  that  they 
have  developed  into,  not  remained  stationary  at,  the  reflex  stage 


§75-   Classification  of  Impulses  and  Instincts    177 


These  are  the  chief  reasons  for  making  motived 
movement  the  first  kind  of  movement  that  appeared 
in  the  world  of  life ;  and  the  only  reason  for  a  con- 
trary opinion  seems  to  be  the  belief  that  what  is 
physiologically  simplest  in  the  human  body  (the 
reflex)  must  be  the  earliest  type  of  movement  in 
general.  That  belief  can  hardly  be  adhered  to,  in 
face  of  the  opposing  arguments. 

The  physiological  difference  between  motived  action  and  reflex 
movement  is  shown,  after  a  greatly  simplified  fashion,  in  Fig.  15. 
In  motived  action,  the  excitation  travels  from 
the  sensory  cell  s  (a  cell,  say,  in  the  retina  or 
the  skin)  straight  up  to  c,  the  brain-cortex. 
Here  it  is  worked  over,  and  passes  out  in  the 
direction  of  the  arrows  to  »/,  the  ending  of  the 
nerve-fibre  in  a  muscle.  The  motive  corresponds 
to  the  commotion  at  c,  the  cortical  excitation.  In 
reflex  movement,  the  excitation  travels  from  s 
across  r  to  m ;  the  whole  process  has  been 
delegated  by  the  cortex  to  lower  nerve-centres  ; 
there  is  no  mental  antecedent  or  concomitant  of 
movement. 

The  cortical  arc  sent  represents  an  arrange- 
ment that  is  older,  in  the  history  of  the  race,  than 
the  short  cut,  the  reflex  arc  srm. 

§  75.   The  Classification  of  Impulses  and  Instincts.  —  ciassifica- 
The  attempts  to  classify  human  impulses  and  instincts 


have  met  with  even  less  success  than  the  attempts  instincts  is 

neither 

to  classify  emotions.  There  is  oftentimes  no  clear  possible 
line  of  division,  in  actual  experience,  between  im- 
pulsive, psychomotor  and  instinctive  action.  And  the 
kinship  of  instinct,  impulse  and  emotion  is  so  close 
that  one  and  the  same  process  may  be  interpreted 
as  any  of  the  three,  according  to  the  point  of  view 
of  the  psychologist  who  is  writing  about  it.  It  is 


178  The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 

no  wonder,  then,  that  one  author  says :  "  Instinctive 
acts  in  man  are  few  in  number,"  and  another:  "No 
other  mammal,  not  even  the  monkey,  shows  so  large 
a  list."  Everything  depends  on  the  point  of  view, 
and  on  the  use  of  terms  to  which  the  point  of  view 
leads. 

Let  us  take  some  illustrations.  Fear  is  an  emotion;  yet 
there  are  instinctive  fears  (fear  of  the  dark,  of  strange 
things  and  people,  etc.).  Almost  all  the  names  for  objec- 
tive emotions  —  like,  dislike,  sympathy,  antipathy,  attraction, 
repulsion  —  are  also  used  to  denote  fundamental  impulses. 
Who  can  say  precisely  at  what  time  bread-cutting  and  coat- 
buttoning  passed  from  the  impulsive  to  the  sensorimotor 
stage  ?  Or  take  this  case  :  I  am  out  for  a  walk  with  a  friend  ; 
see  something  glittering  by  the  roadside,  —  a  pin,  it  may  be ; 
stoop,  and  pick  it  up.  Is  this  sensorimotor  action,  or  the 
outcropping  of  the  acquisitive  instinct? 

norimpor-  Fortunately,  the  enumeration  of  impulses  and  in- 
stincts  is  not  a  very  important  matter.  The  key  to 
the  psychology  of  action  lies  not  in  the  making  out 
of  a  complete  list  of  motives,  but  in  the  right  under- 
standing of  the  composition  of  motives,  and  more 
especially  of  the  impulse.  Impulse  is  the  cardinal 
process  in  the  action-consciousness.  If  the  reader 
has  a  thorough  grasp  of  the  principles  upon  which 
it  is  formed,  and  can  trace  the  development  of  the 
three  degenerate  forms  from  it,  he  will  easily  steer 
his  way  through  the  conflicting  statements  of  the  dif- 
ferent psychologies.  And  —  what  is  more  important 
—  the  shiftings  and  changings  that  the  processes 
undergo  in  practical  experience  will  cease  to  be 
puzzling.  Here,  as  everywhere,  a  sound  theory 
simplifies  the  facts. 


§  76.    The  Simple  Reaction  179 

§  76.  The  Simple  Reaction.  —  The  psychology  of 
action  can  be  investigated  in  the  laboratory  :  indeed, 
'  reaction  experiments,'  as  they  are  called,  are  in  many 
ways  of  great  psychological  importance.  They  are 
performed  as  follows. 

It  is  agreed  between  the  experimenter  and  the  Reaction- 
'  reactor  '  that  at  a  signal  given  by  the  former  a 
definite  movement  shall  be  made  by  the  latter.  To 
get  action  at  its  lowest  terms,  i.e.,  to  keep  all  the 
conditions  of  the  experiment  as  simple  as  possible, 
the  signal  chosen  is  of  such  a  kind  as  to  arouse  a 
single  sensation  (of  noise,  light,  etc.),  and  the  move- 
ment is  that,  e.g.,  of  a  single  finger.  The  instru- 
ments used  are  so  constructed  that  the  time  elapsing 
between  the  signal  and  the  movement  can  be  meas- 
ured :  it  is  called  the  '  reaction-time.' 

We  saw  in  §  1  5    that   attention  to  the  matter   in   Direction  of 
hand   is   essential   to    successful   introspection.      If,     "e 


e 
then,  the   reaction  experiment   is   to   give   us  intro-  experiment. 

spective  knowledge  about  action,  the  reactor  must 
be  attentive.  But  here  a  difficulty  arises.  What 
shall  he  attend  to  ?  Shall  he  attend  predominantly 
to  the  signal  (the  stimulus),  or  to  the  movement,  or 
shall  he  try  to  attend  to  both  at  once,  to  grasp  the 
whole  experiment  ?  Each  of  the  three  directions  of 
attention  is  possible  ;  and  to  each  of  them  there  cor- 
responds a  special  form  of  reaction. 

(i)  Attention    on    the  Stimulus:     the  '  SensoriaV  Reac-    Sensorial, 
tion.  —  The  reactor  enters  upon  the   experiment  with  two 
ideas  in  mind  :  the  idea  of  the  result  of  his  action  (getting 
the  experiment  over,  or  learning  something  about  the  psy- 
chology of  action,  or  doing  something  that  comes   in  the 


i8o 


The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 


muscular 


and  central 
reactions. 


day's  work)  and  the  idea  of  the  stimulus.  The  stimulus  is 
given;  the  idea  of  it  is  replaced  by  its  perception  (per- 
ception of  object) ;  the  two  processes  are  at  once  supple- 
mented by  the  idea  of  own  movement :  movement  follows. 

This,  the  'sensorial'  reaction,  is  plainly  an  artificial  impul- 
sive action.  Moreover,  it  cannot  degenerate  to  any  appreci- 
able extent.  In  course  of  practice,  the  idea  of  result  and  the 
idea  of  own  movement  are  much  reduced,  tending  to  become 
mere  tags  attached  to  the  perception  of  object.  But  this  com- 
plex must,  by  the  terms  of  the  experiment,  be  attended  to ; 
the  action  can  never  pass  over  into  the  sensorimotor  form. 

The  average  duration  of  the  sensorial  reaction  is  .270  sec., 
when  the  stimulus  is  a  flash  of  light;  .225  sec.,  when  it  is 
a  noise ;  and  .210  sec.,  when  it  is  a  sharp  pressure.  The 
differences  are  due,  physiologically,  to  differences  (i)  in  the 
mode  of  excitation  of  the  peripheral  organs,  and  (2)  in 
the  readiness  of  associative  connection  between  these  organs 
and  the  reacting  member. 

(2)  Attention  on  the  Movement ;  'Muscular1  Reaction. — 
The  reactor  has  two  ideas  in  mind :  the  idea  of  the  result 
of  his  action  and  the  idea  of  own  movement.     The  stimulus 
is  given ;  the  perception  of  object  associates  to  these  two 
ideas :  movement  follows. 

This,  the  '  muscular '  reaction,  seems  also,  at  first  sight,  to 
be  an  artificial  impulsive  action.  There  is  a  difference,  how- 
ever. Attention  to  the  coming  movement  means  bodily  prep- 
aration for  the  making  of  that  movement ;  the  hand  tingles 
to  move.  For  the  time  being,  there  is  a  sort  of  reflex  con- 
nection between  the  sense-organ  to  which  the  stimulus  will 
appeal  and  the  reacting  finger.  Hence  the  action  is  not 
impulsive;  it  approaches  the  reflex  type.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  not  a  reflex  or  a  sensorimotor  action,  because 
attention  to  the  movement-idea  is  presupposed. 

The  average  duration  of  the  muscular  reaction  is  .180  sec. 
to  light,  .120  sec.  to  sound,  and  .no  sec.  to  sharp  pressure. 

(3)  Attention  Diffused:    the  'Central*  Reaction.  —  The 
reactor  has  three  ideas  in  mind :  those  of  result,  of  own 


§  76.    The  Simple  Reaction  181 

movement  and  of  object.     The  giving  of  the  signal  changes 
the  idea  of  object  into  its  perception  :  movement  follows. 

This,  the  '  central  '  reaction,  evidently  stands,  for  psychol- 
ogy, midway  between  the  other  two.  And  its  duration  lies 
midway  between  their  durations. 

The   three  forms   of   reaction    are   all  important.   Psychoiogi- 
The  sensorial  form,  an  unchanging  impulsive  action, 


allows  the  reactor  to  examine  the  impulse  introspec-  reac»ion 

experiment. 

tively,  under  standard  conditions.  It  also  serves  as 
the  point  of  departure  for  the  investigation  of  motives 
to  action  that  are  more  complex  than  the  impulse 
(see  Ch.  XIII.).  The  muscular  form,  taken  alter- 
nately with  the  sensorial,  gives  practice  in  the  con- 
trol of  attention:  the  experimenter,  noting  the 
duration  of  the  reactions,  can  tell  whether  the  re- 
actor is  able  to  shift  from  the  idea  of  signal  to  the 
idea  of  movement,  and  vice  versa,  or  whether  in 
each  experiment  he  vacillates  between  the  two  : 
i.e.,  can  determine  how  much  practice  is  needed  for 
the  attention  to  travel  from  the  active  to  the  sec- 
ondarily passive  stage.  Again  :  if  the  attention  is 
permitted  to  lapse  from  the  movement-idea,  the 
reaction  comes  to  be  very  like  a  true  reflex  move- 
ment ;  so  that  the  passage  from  impulse  to  reflex  can 
be  traced  by  the  experimenter.  The  central  form  is 
interesting  as  the  normal,  obvious  form  of  reaction  ; 
the  reactor,  if  left  to  himself,  reacts  as  a  rule  with 
diffused  attention.  Moreover,  if  the  diffused  atten- 
tion is  permitted  to  lapse,  the  central  reaction  passes 
over  into  an  artificial  sensorimotor  action  ;  so  that  the 
passage  can  be  traced  to  this  from  the  impulse,  — 
and  traced  under  more  natural  conditions  than  would 


1 82  The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 

be  the  case  if  attention  were  permitted  to  lapse  from 
the  object-perception  of  the  sensorial  form. 

The  associa-  The  sensorial  reaction  has  been  employed  in  the  study  of 
tion  reaction.  successive  association,  of  the  putting  together  of  the  train  of 
ideas  (§  56).  The  reactor  is  told  that  he  is  to  move  his 
finger,  not  when  he  has  perceived  the  signal,  but  when 
some  idea  (or  series  of  two  or  more  ideas)  has  followed 
that  perception  by  way  of  successive  association.  The 
experimenter,  knowing  the  associated  ideas,  and  knowing 
the  length  of  time  that  each  association  took,  obtains  an 
insight  into  the  reactor's  mental  constitution :  sees  whether 
his  mind  is  addicted  to  abstract  thoughts,  or  moves  most 
easily  among  concrete  things ;  whether  it  is  a  mind  that 
generalises,  rises  to  more  general  ideas  than  that  conveyed 
by  the  stimulus,  or  a  mind  that  particularises,  descends 
from  the  given  perception  to  ideas  that  come  under  it 
as  instances,  etc.,  etc. 

Reaction  and  The  central  reaction,  again,  has  been  employed  in  the 
study  of  memory- type  (§  50),  on  the  theory  that  its  dura- 
tion will  approach  that  of  the  sensorial  or  muscular  form, 
according  as  the  reactor  belongs  to  one  type  or  another. 
When  he  reacts  to  light,  e.g.,  his  reaction-time  will  approach 
the  sensorial,  it  is  said,  if  his  ideas  are  visual,  and  the  mus- 
cular, if  they  are  tactual.  So  far,  however,  the  results 
obtained  on  this  theory  are  of  doubtful  significance. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

r .  The  Reaction  Experiment.  —  The  instrument  represented  in 
Fig.  1 6  is  Professor  Sanford's  reaction-timer.  It  is  constructed 
as  follows. 

Two  brass  pendulum-bobs,  a  and  a',  are  suspended  by  inelastic 
threads  from  the  bar,  b.  The  threads  (the  one  of  which  is  red, 
and  the  other  white)  are  knotted  through  two  holes  bored  in  the 
bar,  pass  through  similar  borings  in  the  bobs,  and  are  held  fast 
by  the  two  set-screws,  c  and  c' .  They  are  prevented  from  spread- 
ing by  being  laid  in  four  grooves  cut  in  the  upper  right-hand 
surface  of  the  bar.  The  pendulums  can  be  lengthened  and 


Questions  and  Exercises 


183 


FIG.  16 


shortened  at  pleasure,  by  clamping  the  set-screws  at  different 

parts  of  the  threads.  —  On  the  right  of  the  cast-iron  base,  d.  are 

placed  two  keys,  e  and  e' '.      The 

lips    of   the    keys,  on    the    side 

towards    the   bobs,   close   so   far 

as  to  grip  tightly  the   shaft  of  a 

light   brass-wire   hook.      One    of 

these  hooks,  f,  lies  in  the  Figure 

upon  the  base  of  the  instrument. 

Counter-hooks  are  fastened  to  the 

pendulum-bobs.       Pressure  upon 

the  buttons  of  the  keys  uncloses 

the  lips,  so  that  the  brass  hooks 

are  released.  —  It  will  be  noticed 

that  the  keys  stand  at  different 

levels  upon  the  base,  and  that  the 

pendulums  are  of  correspondingly 

different  lengths. 

The  instrument  is  tested  in  this  way.  See  that  the  bobs 
hang  evenly  in  the  middle  of  their  threads.  Place  the  hooks 
between  the  lips  of  the  keys,  and  hook  the  bobs  into  them  by  the 
eounter-hooks.  Now  (i)  release  the  nearer,  longer  pendulum  by 
pressing  the  button  of  the  lower  key.  Count  the  swings  of  the 
pendulum  (beginning  from  zero,  not  from  '  one ')  by  help  of  a 
stop-watch.  Note  how  many  full,  i.e.,  back-and-forth  swings 
occur  in  i  min.  Divide  the  time  by  the  number  of  swings,  and 
you  have  the  duration  of  one  total  swing.  We  will  suppose  that 
this  is  0.8  sec. ;  that  the  pendulum  returns  to  the  position  from 
which  it  started  in  0.8  sec.  (2)  Release  the  farther,  shorter  pen- 
dulum, by  pressing  the  button  of  the  upper  key.  Take  the  time 
of  swing  in  the  same  way.  We  will  suppose  that  it  is  0.78  sec. 
It  is  clear  now  that  the  long  pendulum  makes  39  full  swings 
while  the  short  one  makes  40  ;  that  the  shorter  gains  a  full  swing 
on  the  longer  in  every  40  of  its  swings.  The  unit  of  the  instru- 
ment is,  therefore,  0.8  sec.  H-  40,  or  one-fiftieth  of  a  second. 
That  is  to  say :  the  long  pendulum  loses,  the  short  gains, 
0.02  sec.  in  every  full  swing.  (3)  Test  this  result  by  letting  the 
two  pendulums  swing  together,  and  counting  the  number  of 
swings  of  the  long  pendulum  that  elapse  between  coincidence 
and  coincidence  of  the  four  threads,  i.e.,  between  the  times  of 
their  lying  in  one  and  the  same  plane.  If  your  previous  counting 


184  The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 

was  correct,  the  coincidences  should  come  at  the  39th,  78th, 
Iiyth,  etc.,  swings. 

(1)  We  are  now  in  a  position  to  take  a  reaction-time.     Let  it 
be  the  time  of  reaction  to  a  sound  stimulus.     The  base  of  the 
instrument  is  clamped  firmly  to  the  table.     The  pendulums  are 
hooked  to  the  keys,  and  the  hooks  adjusted  till  the  four  threads 
lie  in  the  same  plane.     The  experimenter  places  himself  squarely 
before  the  apparatus,  so  that  he  can  accurately  gauge  the  position 
of  the  threads.     The  subject  sits  with  dosed  eyes,  the  forefinger 
of  the  right  hand  laid  lightly  upon  the  button  of  the  higher  key. 
The    experimenter    says   "  Now ! "   and,  after    an    interval    of 
1.5  —  2  sec.,  raps  sharply  upon  the  button  of  the  lower  key,  thus 
releasing  the  long  pendulum.    On  hearing  the  sound,  the  subject 
presses  the  button  of  his  key,  and  releases  the  short  pendulum. 
The  experimenter  counts  the  swings  of  the  long  pendulum,  from 
the  time  of  its  starting  to  the  time  of  the  first  coincidence  of  the 
four  threads.     If  the  two  pendulums  are  together  at  the  sixth 
swing,  the  reaction-time  is  6  x  0.02  sec.,  or  0.12  sec.  (muscular 
reaction)  ;  if  they  are  together  at  the  eleventh,  the  time  is  0.22 
sec.  (sensorial  reaction).      It  may  sometimes  happen  that  the 
two  pendulums  seem  to  be  in   exact   coincidence   during   two 
swings,  say,  the  tenth  and  the  eleventh :   in  that  event  the  time 
must  be  counted  as  10.5  x  0.02  sec.,  or  0.21  sec.     But  this  will 
not  happen  after  the  experimenter  has  had  a  little  practice  in 
observation  of  the  threads. 

(2)  If  the  reaction  is  reaction  to  pressure  stimulus,  let  the 
subject  lay  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  upon  the  upper,  and 
the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand  upon  the  lower  key.     The  experi- 
menter then  presses  upon  the  latter  finger  (stimulus  is  given), 
and  the  subject  reacts  by  pressing  down  his  own  right-hand 
finger,  as  before. 

(3)  If  the  reaction  is  to  sight,  the  subject  keeps  his  eyes  open, 
and  presses  the  button  of  the  upper  key  when  he  sees  the  experi- 
menter's finger  move  in  the  act  of  pressing  that  of  the  lower. 
Or  the  experiment  may  be  made  by  help  of  the  '  side  wire,1  fur- 
nished with  the  instrument,  as  follows. 

A  piece  of  stout  wire,  bent  to  the  shape  shown  in  Fig.  17  a,  is 
attached  to  the  upper  part  of  the  key,  e  just  above  the  large  screw 
which  forms  the  axis  of  the  key.  When  the  lips  of  the  key  are 
closed,  the  upper  end  of  the  wire  inclines  inwards,  toward  the 
pendulums.  When  the  button  is  pressed,  the  wire  moves  to  a 


Questions  and  Exercises 


185 


FIG.  17 


vertical  position.  The  wire  is  slit  at  its  upper  end,  to  take  a 
small  disc  of  white  cardboard.  Between  the  keys,  e  and  ^,  must 
be  set  up  a  screen  of  black  card,  having  a  circular  opening 
which  allows  the  white  cardboard  to  be  seen  when  the  wire 
stands  vertically,  but  not 
when  the  lips  of  the  key 
are  closed.  The  opening 
should  be  somewhat  smaller 
than  the  white  disc.  —  The 
subject  fixes  his  eyes  upon 
this  opening,  before  the  ex- 
periment begins,  and  reacts 
when  he  sees  the  white  card 
appear  behind  it.  This 
happens,  as  we  said,  when 
the  experimenter  presses  the 
button  of  e.  To  avoid  the 
click  produced  by  the  strik- 
ing of  the  button  of  the  key  upon  the  platform  below,  it  is  well 
to  pad  the  latter  with  cotton-wool,  and  to  encase  the  metal  parts 
and  the  pad  with  a  piece  of  rubber  tubing  (Fig.  17^). 

(4)  In  the  association  reaction  (sound  stimulus),  the  experi- 
menter calls  out  the  stimulus  word  as  he  opens  the  lower  key. 
Suppose  that  a  '  whole '  is  to  be  called,  and  some  '  part '  to  be 
associated  to  it  by  the  subject.  The  experimenter  calls  out 
"  Fish! "  —  pressing  the  button  of  the  lower  key  at  the  moment  he 
utters  the  word  ;  the  subject  presses  his  key  when  he  has  thought 
of '  fin '  or '  tail.'  In  such  cases  it  may  happen  that  the  long  pen- 
dulum makes  a  full  swing  before  the  short  one  starts.  This  must 
be  noted  by  the  experimenter,  and  the  0.8  sec.  added  on  to  the 
time  (taken  in  0.02  sec.  units)  during  which  the  two  pendulums 
are  swinging  together.  —  In  visual  experiments,  printed  words 
replace  the  white  disc  held  by  the  side  wire.  The  reaction- 
movement  is  made  after  association  to  the  word  stimulus. 

The  following  points  may  be  noticed : 

(a)  The  subject  should  write  out  an  introspective  account  of 
each  experiment,  stating  whether  or  not  he  has  obeyed  orders  as 
regards  direction  of  the  attention,  whether  or  not  his  reaction 
was  disturbed  by  chance  noises,  etc.,  etc. 

(V)  Not  more  than  15  or  20  experiments  should  be  made  at  a 
single  sitting.  Otherwise  the  subject  becomes  fatigued. 


1 86  The  Simpler  Forms  of  Action 

(c)  Practice  is  not  complete  until  the  average  difference  between 
the  separate  reaction-times  and  the  average  time  of  the  series  has 
fallen  as  low  as  one-tenth  of  the  average  time.  Thus  the  series 
.255,  .275,  .290,  .265,  .300,  is  a  good  visual  sensorial  series.  The 
average  time  is  .277,  and  the  average  difference  between  this  and 
the  separate  times  .014, —  not  much  more  than  one-twentieth  of 
.277.  On  the  other  hand,  the  series  .200,  .330,  .210,  .265,  .380, 
is  worthless.  The  average  is  again  .277  ;  but  the  average  differ- 
ence between  this  and  the  separate  times  is  .062,  —  an  amount  that 
lies  between  one-fourth  and  one-fifth  of  .277.  Practice  is  here 
incomplete. 

2.  Define  instinctive  action. 

3.  On  p.   171   an  instance  of  sensorimotor  action  is  given, 
Suppose  that  you  have  intended  to  do  something,  but  have  for- 
gotten about  it ;  that  later  in  the  day  the  idea  of  what  you  had 
meant  to  do  recurs  to  you ;  and  that  you  jump  up  at  once  to  do 
it.     This  would  be  an  instance  of  ideomotor  action  ;  object-per- 
ception has  been  replaced  by  object-idea.  —  Give  instances  of 
both  forms  of  psychomotor  action  from  your  own  experience. 

4.  Make  a  Table,  in  the  form  of  a  genealogical  tree,  of  the 
various  kinds  of  action  discussed  in  this  Chapter.    Give  an  exact 
account  of  the  composition  of  the  motive  in  every  case. 

5.  Name  some  of  the  principal  reflexes. 

6.  Rudimentary  organisms  do  not  possess  a  '  brain '  with  a 
'cortex.1     How  do  you  reconcile  this  fact  with  the  statements 
made  above  in  regard  to  Fig.  15? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  chs.  xxiii.,xxv. ;  pp.  415-428, 120-124, 126-128. 

Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  ii.,  ch.  xvii. 

Titchener,  Oiitline,  §§  61-67,  92,  93,  98. 

Wundt,  Lectures,  Lects.  XV.,  XVIII.,  XXVI.,  XXVIL, XXVIII 

Wundt,  Outlines,  §  14. 


CHAPTER   X 
MEMORY  AND  IMAGINATION 

§  77.  The  Two  Kinds  of  Memory  and  Imagination.  —  Some  com- 
The  reader  will  remember  that  we  drew  a  distinction, 


in  Chapter  V.,  between  passive  and  active  attention.  the  state  of 

passive, 

In  passive  attention,  some  one  idea  dominates  con-  others  in 

.,  ,  ,  .  ,         .  ,  .  .  .         that  of  active 

sciousness  with  an  unquestioned  authority  ;  in  active  attention. 
attention,  there  is  a  struggle  of  several  ideas  for  the 
supremacy  (§§  31,  32). 

All  the  complex  processes  that  we  have  examined 
so  far  —  the  assimilation,  the  train  of  ideas,  the  emo- 
tion, the  impulsive  action  —  are  processes  that  take 
shape  in  the  state  of  passive  attention.  There  are 
other,  and  very  important  processes,  which  can  take 
shape  only  in  the  state  of  active  attention.  Thought 
and  creative  imagination,  the  sentiment  of  beauty  or 
of  truth,  deliberate  and  purposed  action,  —  these  are 
wholly  foreign  to  a  mind  that  has  not  risen  above 
the  level  of  primary  passive  attention  ;  they  are  the 
crown  and  flower  of  mental  evolution.  It  is  natural, 
then,  that  we  devote  our  final  Chapters  to  their 
consideration. 

Our  business  with  the  passive  side  of  mind,  how-  'Memory' 

and  '  imagi- 

ever,  is  not  quite  over.     There  are  certain  processes,  ^0,,  -ma, 
composed  chiefly  of  perceptions  and  ideas,  and  occur-  **  Clther 
ring  in  passive  as  well  as  in  active  form,  that  we  passive. 
have  not  yet  touched  upon  :  the  processes  which  are 
grouped  under  the  headings  of  memory  and  imagina- 

187 


1 88  Memory  and  Imagination 

tion.  We  could  not  treat  of  passive  memory  and 
passive  imagination  in  Chapter  VII.,  although  both 
of  them  are  put  together  by  way  of  simultaneous 
association,  because  both  are  made  up  in  part  of 
a  peculiar  mood,  and  moods  could  not  be  discussed 
until  we  reached  Chapter  VIII.  Comprehension  of 
the  laws  of  mental  connection  would  be  a  much 
easier  matter  than  it  is  if  one  could  take  in  three 
chapters  —  sensation,  affection,  attention  ;  or  associa- 
tion, emotion,  impulsive  action  —  at  a  single  reading. 
In  the  present  Chapter,  then,  we  shall  describe 
both  the  passive  and  the  active  forms  of  memory  and 
imagination. 

§  78.  Recognition  and  Memory :  Passive.  —  Most  of 
our  perceptions  and  ideas  are  familiar  to  us.  We 
have  seen  that  they  are  mental  short  cuts  to  know- 
ledge of  the  outside  world  (§§  41,  50),  —  symbols 
rather  than  copies  of  things,  tags  of  meaning  rather 
v  than  the  complex  processes  that  they  were  in  the 
minds  of  our  remote  ancestors ;  we  have  seen,  i.e., 
that  they  are  familiar  in  the  objective  sense,  in  the 
sense  that  they  have  long  been  employed  and  are 
easily  handled.  But  they  are  also  familiar  in  the 
subjective  sense ;  we  realise,  when  they  enter  a  con- 
sciousness, that  they  are  familiar;  they  have  upon 
them  a  mark  or  sign  which,  as  it  were,  says  to  us : 
"This  is  your  old  friend,  the  perception  that  you  had 
then,  or  the  idea  that  you  gained  at  such  and  such 
a  time." 
Passive  When  a  perception  or  group  of  perceptions  has 

recognition  .  ,        - 

and  memory,  this  mark  of  familiarity  upon  it,  we  speak  of  recog- 


§  79-    The  Mark  of  Familiarity  189 

nising  someone  or  something.  When  it  is  an  idea 
or  group  of  ideas  that  bears  the  mark,  we  speak  of 
remembering  someone  or  something.  "  I've  been 
here  before !  "  "  I'm  sure  I  know  that  face !  " 
"  Why,  who'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you  ? " 
these  phrases  are  all  expressions  of  recognition ; 
the  perception  is  familiar.  "  Oh  yes !  he  came  here 
the  year  the  so-and-so's  were  married;"  "It  was  in 
1870,  in  October,  —  I  read  about  it  at  the  same  time 
that  news  came  of  the  capitulation  of  Metz ;  "  "  No ! 
it's  the  male  bird  that  has  the  yellow ;  the  female  is 
white  "  —  these  are  expressions  of  memory ;  the  idea 
is  familiar. 

The  first  thing  that  we  have  to  do,  then,  in  investi-  The  mark  of 

...  ,  -     ,  familiarity. 

gating  passive  recognition  and  memory,  is  to  find  out 
what  precisely  the  '  familiarity  mark '  is ;  of  what 
processes  it  consists,  and  how  it  becomes  attached 
to  perceptions  and  ideas. 

What  we  said  in  §  50  about  memory- types  may  have  led   No  idea  is 

the  reader  to  think  that  some,  if  not  all  ideas  are  intrinsi-   Intnnsica"y 

a  memory- 

cally  memory-ideas ;  that  when  we  have  an  idea,  we  ipso  idea. 
facto  have  a  memory.  This  is  not  the  case.  No  idea  is 
a  memory  in  its  own  right ;  it  must  have  the  memory  label 
affixed  to  it.  We  speak  of  '  memory-types '  rather  than 
of  'idea-types'  simply  because  memory  is  the  use,  so  to 
say,  for  which  ideas  are  intended  ;  it  is  in  being  remembered 
that  ideas  get  their  practical  value.  But  the  phrase  '  idea- 
types  '  would  be  really  more  correct :  since  a  '  memory '  is 
a  marked  idea,  a  mind  whose  ideas  are  of  a  certain  type 
naturally  'remembers'  in  ideas  of  that  type. 

§  79.    The  Mark  of  Familiarity.  —  When  you  recog-  Familiarity 

T       means 

mse  a  figure  in  the  street,  two  things  happen.  In 
the  first  place,  the  perception  is  supplemented  by  a 


igo 


Memory  and  Imagination 


association 


and  the 
mood  of 
confidence. 


number  of  ideas :  perhaps  the  name  of  the  person 
comes  up,  perhaps  the  circumstances  under  which 
you  last  saw  him,  perhaps  some  business  that  you 
have  or  have  had  with  him,  perhaps  a  question  that 
you  wish  to  ask  or  a  story  that  you  have  heard  about 
him.  There  is  no  before  and  after  in  the  experience ; 
as  soon  as  you  see  your  acquaintance,  these  ideas  are 
present  in  consciousness :  it  is  a  case  of  simultaneous 
association.  True,  the  simultaneous  association  may 
form  the  starting-point  for  a  successive  association, 
for  a  train  of  ideas ;  but  in  the  recognition  itself  the 
association  is  simultaneous.  In  the  second  place, 
you  are  thrown  into  an  agreeable  mood,  the  mood 
of  ease  or  confidence,  of  '  at-homeness ' ;  you  feel 
familiarly  towards  the  figure.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  passers-by  whom  you  do  not  know,  do  not  recog- 
nise, are  perceived  merely ;  they  have  no  power,  as 
personalities,  to  awaken  associated  ideas  in  your 
mind :  and  you  feel  indifferently  towards  them ; 
they  do  not  affect  or  '  concern '  you.  Of  course,  a 
'  striking '  face  or  costume  may  compel  the  passive 
attention  (§  31);  but  such  perception  is  not  recog- 
nition. 

The  same  thing  holds  of  memory.  When  you 
remember  something,  whether  it  is  a  scene  of  your 
childhood  or  the  date  of  Julius  Caesar's  assassi- 
nation, the  idea  of  that  something  is  supplemented 
at  once  by  a  crowd  of  other  ideas ;  and,  as  these 
ideas  cluster  round  it,  the  at-home  feeling  comes  too. 

These  two  groups  of  processes,  then,  —  the  associ- 
ated ideas  and  the  mood  of  confidence,  —  together 
make  up  the  mark  of  familiarity.  They  attach  to  a 


§  79-    Tke  Mark  of  Familiarity  191 

perception,  in  every  case  of  recognition  ;  they  attach 
to  an  idea,  in  every  instance  of  memory. 

There  are  three  points  to  notice,  in  regard  to  the  familiarity   Recognition 
mark,     (i)  The  mood  of  at-homeness  or  confidence  is  a  weak-   means  relief 
ened  form   of  the  emotion  of  relief.      Fear  of  strange  things 
and  strange  people  is  instinctive  with  man  (§  75) ;   and  it  is 
a  survival  of  fear  unfulfilled,  of  relief,  that  we  experience  when 
we  recognise.     (2)  The  mood  is,  however,  a  very  degenerate    (but  a  greatly 
form  of  this  emotion.     The  '  body '  of  every  complete  emotion   weakened 
is  a  vivid  and   complex   feeling  (§  59).     In  the  mood  of  at-  r°™f? 
homeness  there  is  no  trace  at  all  of  this  central  feeling,  no 
attention  to  a  '  situation ' ;  the   current   train   of  ideas   is   not 
interrupted ;  the  mood  consists  solely  of  a  pleasant  affection  and 
of  the  organic  sensations  set  up  by  an  easy  and  careless  bodily 
attitude.     (3)  It  follows  from  (i)  that  every  recognition  is  in-   and  is  inher- 
herently  pleasant.     Oftentimes,  it  is  true,  the  pleasantness  of  the   ently  Pleas- 
at-home  mood  is  outweighed  by  the  unpleasantness  of  the  associ-   ura   e' 
ated  ideas :   we  may  recognise  a  person  whom  we  particularly 
want  to  avoid.     But  this  does  not  impair  the  previous  state- 
ment:   in  itself,  recognition  is  pleasurable. 

It    is    exceedingly   important    to   understand   the  Psychology 

,     ,  ,.  .          ,  cal' mean- 

psychology  of  recognition,  for  the  reason  that  recog-  ing; 

nition  brings  out,  perhaps  even  more  clearly  than 
perception  (§  38),  the  part  that  meaning'  plays  in  the 
shaping  of  mind.  A  perception  is  a  group  of 
sensations,  and  yet  is  not  accurately  described  when 
these  sensations  are  accurately  described.  For  it 
is  formed  under  stress  of  biological  necessity,  —  at 
the  bidding  of  external  nature ;  it  must  mean  some 
natural  object,  if  it  is  to  hold  together;  and,  unless 
we  state  this,  its  description  is  incomplete.  Recog- 
nition illustrates  the  same  fact  from  a  different  point 
of  view :  it  shows  us  that,  when  a  complex  process 
holds  together,  it  has  a  meaning. 

For  consider.     We  say  that  certain  associated  ideas 


192  Memory  and  Imagination 

and  a  certain  mood  make  a  '  perception '  a  '  recog 
nised  perception.'  "Very  well,"  you  may  reply: 
"but  how  do  we  recognise  the  ideas  and  the  mood? 
They  cannot  help  us  to  recognise  anything,  unless 
they  are  themselves  recognised."  The  answer  to  the 
objection  is  this.  The  grouping  of  associated  ideas 
and  mood  round  a  perception  means  that  that  per- 
ception has  occurred  in  our  experience  on  some  pre- 
vious occasion.  But  the  '  recognition '  of  a  perception 
means  this,  too.  '  Recognition,'  then,  simply  sums  up 
in  a  single  word  'grouping  of  associated  ideas  and 
presence  of  mood.'  These  processes  do  not  them- 
selves need  recognition  :  they  are  recognition.  They 
would  fall  apart,  unless  they  meant  something ;  and 
their  meaning  —  a  meaning  implanted  in  them  by 
external  nature  —  is  :  "  You  are  safe  :  this  thing  has 
been  here  before." 

Recognitions  §  8o.  The  Degrees  of  Recognition  and  of  Memory.  — 
rtesdtfferTn  ^e  nave  now  answered  our  first  question;  we  know 
definiteness.  what  the  '  mark  of  familiarity '  is.  But  while  all  re- 
cognitions and  memories  are  alike  in  general  outline, 
so  to  speak,  —  all  being  instances  of  simultaneous 
association,  all  containing  the  same  mood,  and  all 
having  the  same  practical  meaning,  — they  differ  very 
greatly  in  definiteness.  We  said  in  the  last  Section, 
that  the  perception  (in  recognition)  or  the  idea  (in 
memory)  is  supplemented  by  '  a  number,'  '  a  crowd ' 
of  other  ideas.  This  is  true  in  cases  of  complete  or 
definite  recognition  and  memory ;  it  is  not  true  in 
all  cases.  We  find  every  degree  of  definiteness,  from 
a  vague  and  shadowy  acquaintance,  with  perhaps  a 


§  8l.   Recognition  and  Memory:  Active      193 

single  associated  idea,  to  clear  and  perfect  knowledge, 
with  a  whole  consciousness-full  of  associates. 

Suppose  that  a  number  of  different  people  are  shown  a  photo-  Instances, 
graph  of  the  same  painting.  They  would  all  recognise  it  as  a 
photograph,  and  probably,  if  they  looked  at  all  closely  at  it,  as 
taken  from  a  painting.  But  beyond  this  point  their  recognitions 
might  show  all  degrees  of  definiteness.  One  might  say:  "I 
don't  know  it :  it  is  evidently  a  sacred  picture,  but  that's  all  I 
can  say."  Another :  "  It  must  be  a  Raphael ;  but  I  don't  know 
which."  Another :  "  It's  one  of  the  famous  Raphael  Madonnas ; 
it  seems  familiar  to  me,  and  I'm  sure  I've  seen  an  account  of  it 
somewhere,  but  I  can't  remember  now  where  it  was."  Another : 
"Oh  yes!  It's  the  Sistine  Madonna,  —  Raphael's."  Another: 
"  Of  course  :  that's  the  Sistine,  —  stands  in  the  little  room  in  the 
Dresden  gallery,  where  the  Holbeins  are."  Another  will  know 
this,  and  will  be  able  to  give  in  addition  the  complete  colour- 
scheme  of  the  picture ;  and  another  will  be  acquainted  with  its 
history,  —  and  so  on.  Here  we  have  various  stages  of  recogni- 
tion, rising  from  great  indefiniteness  to  great  definiteness.  The 
principle  is  the  same  throughout. 

So  with  memory.  Ask  a  number  of  people  who  read  the  same 
book  at  about  the  same  time  what  they  remember  of  it.  Some 
will  have  "  forgotten  the  plot :  but  it  was  a  good  story."  Others 
will  tell  you,  in  a  sketchy  way,  what  were  the  chief  incidents  in 
the  tale.  Others  will  recall  it  in  greater  detail,  and  will  give  you 
certain  scenes  quite  vividly.  Others,  again,  will  remember  '  all 
about '  the  book :  what  the  story  is,  and  why  it  was  written,  and 
what  effect  it  had  on  the  public,  and  what  the  author's  life- 
history  was,  and  so  on. 

The  less  definite  the  associates,  the  less  strong  is 
the  mood  of  confidence.  But  some  associate  —  if  it 
is  only  the  bare  thought  "I  know!"  —and  some 
trace  of  the  mood  are  present  in  our  dimmest  mem- 
ories and  blankest  recognitions. 

§  8 1 .    Recognition  and  Memory  :  Active.  —  The  pro- 
cesses of   remembering  and  recognising  are  always 
the  same,  and  always  occur  in  the  state  of  passive 
o 


194  Memory  and  Imagination 

attention.     But  they  may  be  preceded  by  a  state  of 
active  attention ;  we  may  not  recognise  a  thing  till 
after  we  have  actively  attended  to  a  number  of  per- 
ceptions,—  and  we  may  not  recollect  a  name  till  after 
we  have  actively  attended  to  a  long  series  of  ideas. 
What  is          In   other  words,  the    state  of   passive    attention   in 
•"active >y       which  they  occur  may  be  that  of  secondary  passive 
recognition      attention.      Cases  of  this  kind  show  us  recognition 

and  memory. 

and  memory  in  their  '  active    forms. 

Instances.  Suppose  that  you  are  trying  to  find  your  way  along  a 

little-used  forest  path,  which  you  have  travelled  only  once 
or  twice  before.  You  come  to  a  doubtful  place  :  the  tree 
looks  right,  but  you  are  not  quite  sure  :  there  ought  to  be  a 
big  stone  a  few  yards  on,  and  then  a  swampy  patch.  If  the 
stone  and  the  bit  of  marsh  show  themselves,  you  '  recognise ' 
the  path  :  active  lapses  into  passive  attention.  If  they  do 
not,  you  go  back  to  the  tree,  and  scrutinise  the  ground 
again.  On  a  familiar  path,  the  associates  and  the  mood  of 
confidence  are  present  from  the  beginning.  —  Recognition 
is  made  up  of  just  the  same  processes  in  both  cases;  but  in 
the  first  case  it  is  preceded  by  active  attention. 

Or  suppose  that  you  are  trying  to  think  of  the  name  of 
someone  whose  face  is  familiar  to  you.  You  "  know  his 
name  as  well  as  you  know  your  own  "  ;  but  the  word  obsti- 
nately refuses  to  come.  You  now  attend  actively  to  a  num- 
ber of  ideas,  some  one  of  which  you  hope  may  be  strongly 
enough  associated  to  the  required  name  to  bring  it  up :  you 
think  of  the  scenes  in  which  you  have  met  the  possessor  of 
the  name,  of  his  usual  occupations,  of  his  friends'  names,  — 
you  run  through  the  alphabet,  recalling  the  names  that  begin 
with  the  different  letters,  and  so  on.  At  last  you  get  the 
name,  or  get  some  idea  that  brings  the  name  with  it :  the 
name  is  supplemented  by  all  sorts  of  ideas  (instances  of  its 
use,  times  and  places),  and  the  mood  of  confidence  arises 
with  a  touch  of  real  relief  in  its  composition.  —  Again,  the 


§82.   Physiology  of  Memory  and  Forgetf illness    195 

memory  is  precisely  like  passive  memory,  except  that  a  stage 
of  active  attention  has  preceded  it. 

The  term  '  memory '  is  sometimes  employed  in  a  narrow  sense 
to  mean  *  passive  memory,'  and  active  memory  is  expressed  by 
the  word  '  recollection.' 

§  82.  The  Physiology  of  Memory  and  Forgetf  illness. 
—  Since  all  our  memories  are  formed  by  way  of 
simultaneous  association,  the  law  of  memory  will  be 
the  same  as  the  law  of  association :  all  the  connec- 
tions set  up  in  a  consciousness  tend  to  persist  (§  54). 
Fortunately,  however,  in  memory  as  in  association, 
only  part  of  these  connections  do  persist  in  actual 
fact.  In  association,  it  will  be  remembered,  some  one 
sensation  in  the  complex  perception  or  idea  suggests 
another  perception  or  idea ;  it  is  not  the  whole  idea 
that  calls  up  another,  but  only  some  particular  side 
or  aspect  of  it  (§  57).  If  every  sensation  in  every 
idea  were  equally  ready  to  call  up  associates,  con- 
sciousness would  be  a  mazy  tangle  of  processes,  and 
definite  meaning  would  be  impossible. 

So  it  is  with  memory.      If  we  are  to  remember  Forgetfui- 

r    n  .•_  f  ^     i        i          rr  ness  a  condi- 

usefully,  we  must  forget  a  great  deal.     If  we  remem-  tionofthe 
bered  every  incident  of  every  day,  —  at  what  time  usefulness  of 

memory. 

we  got  up,  what  letters  we  received,  what  we  had 
to  eat  and  drink,  what  exercise  we  took,  what  work 
we  did,  —  we  should  be  lost  in  the  wealth  of  our  own 
ideas ;  we  '  should  not  see  the  wood  for  the  trees.' 

The  course   of   association  can   be   explained,  as  The  law  of 
we  saw,  by  the  law  of  habit :  the  more  habitual  the 
co-excitation  in  the  brain,  the  more  certain  the  asso- 
ciation in  consciousness.     Remembering  and  forget- 
ting may  be  explained  in  precisely  the  same  way. 


196  Memory  and  Imagination 

Habitual  associates  are  remembered ;  accidental  asso- 
ciates, forgotten. 

The  different       The  deepest-seated  habits  of  the  brain  are  its  natural  and 
habit  °  acquired  tendencies   (§   57).     Hence  we  remember  what 

fits  in  with  our  mental  constitution,  and  forget  what  does 
not.  Then  there  are  the  habits  set  up  by  a  sudden  wrench. 
We  remember  vivid,  strong,  unexpected  experiences,  and 
forget  the  rest.  Thirdly,  there  are  the  social  and  profes- 
sional habits  of  adult  life.  We  remember  the  details  of  our 
business  or  of  our  science,  so  that  the  outsider  is  often 
surprised  at  the  richness  of  a  technical  memory,  —  not 
thinking  how  poor  that  memory  is  for  other  things.  Lastly, 
there  are  the  temporary  habits  set  up  by  recent  events. 
We  remember  recent  occurrences,  for  a  little  time,  just 
because  they  are  recent ;  every  dint  in  the  brain,  so  to  say, 
remains  for  a  while,  till  it  is  obliterated  by  the  multitude 
of  still  newer  impressions. 
Habit  means  Putting  all  this  together  with  what  we  said  in  §  57,  we 

past  atten-       cannot  resist  the  conclusion  that  where  habit  is.  there  atten- 
tion. 

tion  has  been.     Just  as  reflex  movement  arises  by  way  of 

attentive  (impulsive)  action,  so  is  the  machinery  of  memory 
and  association  set  up  by  way  of  foregone  attention.  An 
idea  that  fits  in  with  our  mental  constitution  is  an  idea 
that  we  attend  to ;  a  vivid,  strong,  unexpected  idea  is  also 
attended  to ;  the  details  of  our  profession  are  the  things 
that  interest  us.  Though  we  remember  for  a  few  hours  the 
time  that  we  got  up  in  the  morning,  the  time-idea  is  doomed 
to  forgetfulness  when  the  first  flush  of  newness  is  past,  simply 
because  we  did  not  attend  to  it.  Let  us  get  up  unusually 
early,  and  we  remember  the  fact  for  weeks.  —  This  is  how 
it  comes  about  that  the  idea  attended  to  is  more  valuable, 
more  suggestive  than  other  ideas  (§  30).  The  ideas  that 
come  to  mind  in  the  most  fanciful  day-dream,  in  the  me- 
chanical and  inattentive  flow  of  consciousness,  would  not 
come  unless  they  had,  at  some  time,  been  attended  to. 
Cramming.  Notice  the  light  that  this  Section  throws  on  the  subject  of 


§  83.    The  'Three  Stages'  in  Remembering     197 

cramming.  The  student  who  crams  for  an  examination  trusts 
to  recency  of  experience  to  carry  him  through ;  he  hopes  that  a 
certain  amount  of  his  reading  will  cling  to  him  for  just  the  day 
or  two  that  he  needs  it.  Hence  cramming  is  bad,  if  you  want 
to  remember,  good,  if  you  want  to  forget,  what  you  have  learned. 
Professor  James  emphasises  the  bad  side.  "  Things  learned  thus 
in  a  few  hours,  on  one  occasion,  for  one  purpose,"  he  says, 
"cannot  possibly  have  formed  many  associations  with  other 
things  in  the  mind.  Speedy  oblivion  is  the  almost  inevitable 
fate  of  all  that  is  committed  to  memory  in  this  simple  way.1' 
The  late  Professor  Jevons,  one  of  the  best  known  of  English 
logicians,  looked  at  the  matter  from  the  other  point  of  view. 
It  is,  he  says,  "a  popular  but  wholly  erroneous  notion  that  what 
boys  learn  at  school  and  college  should  be  useful  knowledge 
indelibly  impressed  upon  the  mind,  so  as  to  stay  there  all  their 
lives."  Cramming  "  is  the  rapid  acquisition  of  a  series  of  facts, 
the  vigorous  getting  up  of  a  case,  in  order  to  exhibit  well-trained 
powers  of  comprehension."  And  this,  he  insists,  is  a  fitting  for 
the  business  of  later  life. 

§  83.  The  '  Three  Stages '  in  Remembering.  —  Psy- 
chologists often  speak  of  '  the  three  stages '  or  the 
'triple  process'  of  memory.  The  three  stages  are 
those  of  retention,  reproduction  and  recognition. 
We  have  a  perception :  it  is  retained  in  the  mind, 
as  an  idea ;  the  mind  reproduces  it,  brings  it  out 
again  for  use,  when  occasion  arises ;  then,  when  it 
is  brought  out,  it  is  recognised  as  the  old  perception. 

The  reader  will  see  that  these  three  terms  furnish 
a  description  of  memory  which  corresponds,  roughly, 
to  the  facts.  Yet  it  is  a  description  which  differs 
very  considerably  from  the  account  of  memory  given 
in  §  78.  The  difference  illustrates  the  difference 
between  scientific  psychology  and  the  popular  psy- 
chology that  we  spoke  of  in  §  3.  Let  us  consider 
the  terms  in  order. 

(i)  It  is  misleading  to  say  that  the  mind  retains  Retention. 


198 


Memory  and  Imagination 


Reproduc- 
tion. 


ideas.  If  the  mind  were  a  creature  inside  of  us,  it 
might  do  this,  and  we  know  nothing  about  the  fact. 
But  if  our  ideas  and  feelings  and  so  on  are  the  mind, 
an  idea  which  is  not  now  present  in  consciousness 
is  not  an  idea  at  all.  No !  it  is  not  the  mind  that  is 
retentive,  but  the  brain-cortex;  and  even  it  is  reten- 
tive only  in  the  sense  that  it  acquires  habits  of  func- 
tioning. The  commotion  that  the  perception  sets  up 
in  the  cortex  is  not  bottled  away,  and  kept  ready 
for  use ;  it  persists  simply  in  the  form  of  a  tendency 
of  the  cortex  to  fall  into  the  same  state  of  commotion 
later  on. 

(2)  If  the  mind  stored  up  its  ideas,  keeping  them 
out  of  sight  till  wanted,  it  would  be  true  to  say  that 
they  are  reproductions  of  the  original  perceptions. 
They  would  be,  in  fact,  renewed  or  revived  percep- 
tions. But  we  saw  in  §  50  that,  while  primitive 
ideas  are  really  weaker  copies  of  perceptions,  our 
own  ideas  (as  a  general  rule)  are  not;  the  original 
commotion  has  been  translated,  by  the  tendencies  of 
the  nervous  system,  into  the  language  of  that  par- 
ticular system :  so  that  our  memory  of  a  sound  (a 
musical  air)  may  be  a  sight  (printed  words),  etc. 
There  need  be  no  scrap  or  atom  of  the  perception 
in  the  idea  that  means  that  perception  to  us. 
Recognition.  (3)  Nor  does  the  mind  stand  apart  from  the  revived 
perception,  look  at  it,  and  then  go  through  a  peculiar 
performance,  the  act  of  recognition.  Whenever  con- 
sciousness is  made  up  of  a  central  idea,  of  associates 
to  that  idea,  and  of  the  mood  of  confidence,  memory 
is  going  on. 

All  these  words  —  retention,  reproduction,  recogni- 


§  84.    Direct  Apprehension  199 

tion,  recollection,  memory,  etc.  —  have  come  down  to  The  old  and 
us  from  a  psychology  which  did  conceive  of  the  mind  psychjiogy. 
as  a  living  creature  of  some  kind,  residing  in  the  body. 
They  were  the  names  given  to  powers  or  faculties  or 
capacities  of  this  creature.  It  laid  up  its  perceptions, 
as  the  careful  husbandman  lays  up  a  stock  of  grain ; 
it  brought  them  out,  in  time  of  need,  as  he  brings  out 
his  store  of  wheat ;  it  gathered  up  again  any  that  it 
had  let  slip,  as  he  gathers  up  (re-collects)  the  seeds 
scattered  on  the  granary  floor ;  etc.,  etc.  We  have  out- 
grown these  views.  But  words  which  have  been  used 
as  long  as  these  cannot  be  simply  thrown  away,  and 
replaced  by  new  terms ;  they  have  become  a  part  of 
the  science.  We  must  take  them ;  but  we  must  also 
reinterpret  them.  In  modern  psychology,  a  memory 
is  an  idea  accompanied  by  associated  ideas  and  the 
mood  of  at-homeness.  Memory  in  the  abstract  — 
tenacious  memory,  logical  memory,  poor  memory  — 
is  one  phase  or  feature  of  mental  constitution. 

§  84.    Direct  Apprehension.  —  Some  perceptions  and  Recognition, 

•  i  i  /••!•!_  *.•*-•          A.I.    L.    memory,  and 

ideas  become  so  familiar,  by  constant  repetition,  that  direct  a'ppre. 
we  do  not  recognise  or  remember  them,  but  simply  tension, 
take  them  for  granted.     We  are  then  said  to  '  cognise ' 
them,  or  to  have  a  '  direct  apprehension '  of  them. 

Think  of  the  first  watch  that  you  possessed.  For  a  while 
you  '  recognised  '  it  every  time  that  you  pulled  it  out  of  your 
pocket  ;  the  sight  of  it  called  up  a  flood  of  ideas  —  who 
gave  it  you,  what  a  good  one  it  is,  which  of  your  friends 
have  one  and  which  have  not,  etc.  —  and  a  strong  mood  of 
relief:  you  'made  sure'  that  you  had  it,  and  were  not 
dreaming.  The  relief  alternated,  perhaps,  with  satisfaction, 
hope  fulfilled.  Very  soon,  however,  the  satisfaction  passed 


200 


Memory  and  Imagination 


What '  tak- 
ing things 
for  granted ' 
means. 


The  of- 

course 

mood. 


over  into  equableness,  and  the  recognition  into  direct  appre- 
hension. You  took  the  watch  for  granted ;  of  course  you 
had  one. 

So  for  the  first  few  times  that  you  apply  an  algebraical 
rule,  you  '  remember '  the  rule.  It  comes  up  in  mind  with 
many  associates,  and  you  set  about  your  work  with  relief  and 
confidence.  But  as  you  go  on,  solving  more  and  more  prob- 
lems by  its  aid,  you  apprehend  it  directly :  of  course  you 
use  it,  —  it  is  the  rule  to  use. 

In  direct  apprehension,  all  the  associated  ideas  that 
help  us  to  recognise  and  remember  have  fallen  away. 
The  perception  or  idea  is  so  familiar  that  they  would 
now  be  useless  or  worse  than  useless,  encumbrances 
rather  than  aids.  And  the  mood  of  confidence,  though 
it  has  not  wholly  disappeared,  is  greatly  weakened. 
It  persists  dimly,  as  a  sort  of  fringe  or  halo,  telling 
us  that  the  perception  or  idea  is  a  matter  of  course. 
The  '  at-homeness '  has  degenerated  into  an  '  of-course- 
ness '  which  tinges  all  the  very  familiar  things  of  life : 
our  friends'  faces,  the  furniture  of  our  rooms,  our 
own  tricks  of  expression,  the  round  of  ideas  that 
carries  us  through  our  day's  work,  and  so  forth. 

This  of-courseness  is  a  real  mood,  a  pleasurable  state,  and 
not  a  state  of  indifference.  Its  psychological  nature  is  best 
brought  out  by  contrast.  Just  as  we  do  not  realise  the 
blessings  of  health  till  we  have  passed  through  a  time  of  ill- 
health,  so  we  do  not  know  how  really  necessary  to  our  com- 
fort the  existing  order  of  things  is  until  it  has  been  disturbed. 
Think  of  the  misery  of  the  weekly  '  turn  out '  of  your  special 
room  !  You  come  home  after  the  morning's  work,  and  find 
everything  looking  strangely  and  uncomfortably  new ;  books 
and  papers  are  neatly  arranged,  chairs  symmetrically  placed, 
and  an  unhomely  dampness  is  over  all.  Gradually  things 
begin  to  take  on  their  accustomed  aspect;  you  pass  from 


§  85.  Mental  Imagery  201 

relief  to  at-homeness,  and  from  that  to  the  of-course  mood 
of  direct  apprehension. 

§  85.  Mental  Imagery.  —  To  'image'  a  thing  means,  Mental 
in  psychology,  to  ideate  it  in  kind :  a  tree  is  imaged  ' 
by  a  visual  idea,  a  piano  note  by  an  idea  of  hear- 
ing, running  to  catch  a  train  by  a  tactual  idea: 
the  ideas  are  the  same  in  kind  as  the  perceptions 
which  they  represent.  In  this  sense,  a  mind  is  more 
or  less  '  imaginative '  according  as  it  is  better  or 
worse  constituted  to  think  of  things  in  kind :  and 
the  primitive  mind  —  the  mind  whose  ideas  are  pho- 
tographic copies  of  perceptions  (§  50)  —  is  the  most 
imaginative  of  all. 

But  visual  images  are  to  images  in  general  very  are  more 
much  what  words  are  to  ideas  (§  17).     That  is  to  say,  especially, 

visual 

if  a  man  thinks  at  all  in  ideas  of  kind,  it  is  probable  images. 
that  those  ideas  are  mainly  visual,  that  the  sound  and 
touch  parts  of  his  perceptions  are  translated  by  the 
nervous  system  into  visual  terms.  Hence  when  we 
say  that  so-and-so  is  'imaginative,'  we  mean  as  a 
general  rule  that  he  can  picture  things  and  events 
distinctly  in  his  mind's  eye.  A  man  may  have  the 
most  vivid  tactual  '  pictures,'  lifelike  tactual  images, 
-  but  still,  if  he  lacks  visual  imagination,  he  will  be 
classed  by  most  of  his  friends  as  unimaginative. 

In  strictness,  then,  the  memory-types  of  Ch.  VII.  might  The  danger 
equally  well  be  termed  'imagination  types'  (</.  §  77).  We 
keep  the  word  imagination,  in  the  sense  of  visualisation, 
partly  because  it  has  come  down  to  us  in  that  sense  from 
the  older  psychology  and  is  current  in  the  same  sense  in 
popular  thinking  ;  but  partly,  too,  because  it  is  useful  to 
distinguish  the  '  imaginative '  mind  from  minds  of  unimagi- 


2O2 


Memory  and  Imagination 


Children's 
lies. 


Two  ways  of 
imaging. 


native  constitution.  We  are  apt  to  think  of  imaginative 
people  as  unreliable  people,  people  who  cannot  describe  an 
incident  without  embellishing  it.  And  indeed,  this  tendency 
to  depart  from  facts  is  the  besetting  danger  of  the  imagi- 
native mind.  For  suppose  that,  as  you  tell  a  story,  every 
word  that  you  utter  is  supplemented  at  once  by  some  pict- 
ure. The  picture  comes  up  by  association ;  and,  since  the 
verbal  idea  has  a  whole  host  of  associates,  there  will  almost 
certainly  be  elements  in  the  picture  that  were  not  in  the 
original  experience.  You  naturally  describe  these,  as  well  as 
the  true  features  of  the  picture.  And  the  process  is  repeated, 
till  the  facts  are  buried  under  a  mass  of  fictitious  details. 

A  large  proportion  of  the  lies  told  by  young  children  are 
of  this  character.  They  are  not  due  to  any  moral  defect ; 
it  is  simply  that  imagination  colours  the  story  in  the  telling. 
And  as  all  imagination  has  upon  it  the  of-course  mark  (the 
very  fact  that  we  imagine  shows  that  image-ideas  are  those 
most  familiar  to  us),  the  children  are  unable  to  distinguish 
between  fact  and  fancy.  They  must  be  taught  the  distinc- 
tion, in  the  course  of  education,  if  what  begins  as  a  normal 
feature  of  mental  constitution  is  not  to  end  as  a  habit  of 
exaggeration  and  disregard  of  truth.  Rightly  schooled, 
imagination  is  of  the  greatest  service  in  after  life  (see  above, 
§50. 

There  are  two  different  ways  of  imaging.  Some 
people  see  the  visual  images  as  if  they  were  out  in 
space,  —  at  about  the  same  distance  from  the  body 
that  the  objects  would  be  which  they  represent. 
Others  do  not  localise  them  at  all :  they  are  extended 
(p.  100),  but  not  referred  to  any  particular  distance 
from  the  body.  It  seems  to  be  the  rule  that  images 
of  this  latter  sort  are  deeper  in  colour  and  more 
transparent,  so  to  speak,  than  the  others ;  those  of  the 
former  kind  are  more  definite  in  outline,  but  harder 


§  86.    Passive  Imagination  203 

and  cruder  in  colour  (cf.  the  effect  of  background, 
P-  97)- 

§  86.   Passive  Imagination.  —  In   passive  imagina-  Passive 

.,  •      ^1  <-  imagination. 

tion,  the  imaging  goes  on  in  the  state  of  primary  pas- 
sive attention.  It  is  best  illustrated  by  the  reading  of 
fiction.  The  words  of  a  warm,  living  story  are  the 
exact  translations  of  imagined,  pictured  scenes ;  and 
if  the  reader  is  to  reconstruct  the  pictures  thus 
transcribed,  he  must  himself  be  not  destitute  of 
imagination.  The  writer,  having  elaborated  his  plot, 
photographs  it  in  words ;  the  imaginative  reader  ab- 
sorbed in  the  words,  reimagines  the  writer's  images. 

Another  instance  of  the  same  kind  is  afforded  by  the  illus-   Book 

,        Tr.v  j     ,  ,     ,    .         .       .         illustration, 

trations  to  novels.    If  they  are  good,  the  readers  imagination 

is  assisted,  guided,  encouraged ;  if  they  are  poor,  it  is 
choked.  Cruikshank's  and  Seymour's  and  Browne's  illus- 
trations of  Dickens  are  of  the  former  kind  :  the  pictures  of 
Fagin  and  Mr.  Pickwick  and  Ralph  Nickleby  help  us  to 
imagine  the  men.  Oftentimes,  however,  a  picture  shows  a 
lack  of  imagination  on  the  artist's  part.  In  that  case,  the 
reader's  imagination  is  suppressed,  because  he  is  held  down 
to  the  picture,  —  whenever  he  begins  to  imagine  a  scene, 
the  remembrance  of  the  picture  cuts  across  his  images,  and 
by  its  greater  strength  thrusts  them  out  of  consciousness. 
The  reading  of  Robinson  Crusoe  may  wholly  fail  of  its  due 
effect  upon  a  child  by  reason  of  unimaginative  cuts. 

Lytton's  Last  Days  of  Pompeii  may  be  cited  as  a  book 
which  shows  imagination  on  the  side  of  the  author,  and  demands 
it  on  the  side  of  the  reader.  Thackeray  speaks  of  the  "  wonderful 
ingenuity  "  with  which  Lytton  "  illustrated  the  place  by  his  text, 
as  if  the  houses  were  so  many  pictures  to  which  he  had  appended 
a  story.11  A  good  part  of  Mr.  Kipling's  strength  lies  in  his 
power  to  make  the  reader  see,  as  if  with  the  eye  of  outward  per- 
ception, the  scenes  depicted  in  his  stories. 


2O4 


Memory  and  Imagination 


What  was  said  above  of  book  illustrations  applies  equally  well 
to  the  picture-jokes  that  abound  in  the  comic  papers,  —  the  series 
of  pictures  which  trace  the  course  of  some  humorous  incident. 
Sometimes  the  artist  leaves  much  to  the  readers  imagination ; 
oftener,  however,  the  incident  is  portrayed  in  so  many  stages, 
with  so  much  detail,  that  one  almost  hears  him  say:  '•'•You  have 
no  imagination ;  I  must  come  down  to  your  matter-of-fact  level." 
The  consequence  is  that  what  should  have  provoked  laughter 
calls  forth  resentment. 


Active  or 

creative 

imagination. 


§  87.  Active  Imagination.  —  In  active  imagination, 
the  imaging  has  been  preceded  by  a  state  of  ac- 
tive attention.  When  a  sculptor  resolves  to  chisel 
a  Siegfried,  e.g.,  he  reviews  attentively  the  whole  of 
the  Siegfried  legend,  picking  out  a  feature  here  and 
a  feature  there,  and  finally  combines  the  traits  se- 
lected into  an  '  ideal '  image.  This  actively  formed 
image  is  expressed  in  the  statue.  So  when  an  actor 
wishes  to  render  the  part  of  Hamlet,  he  scrutinises 
every  word  and  action  that  is  set  down  in  the  play, 
and  actively  '  lives  himself  into  '  the  character.  The 
natural,  easy,  '  of-course '  presentation  that  he  gives 
when  his  study  is  over  is  the  expression  of  the  total 
Hamlet-image  that  has  been  taking  shape  during  the 
state  of  active  attention.  Once  more  :  when  a  writer 
of  romance  sets  to  work  upon  a  tale,  he  labours  at 
every  detail  of  his  plot  as  if  it  were  a  mathematical 
problem  to  be  solved.  The  story,  which  flows  so 
easily  as  we  read  from  event  to  event,  —  all  the 
threads  of  incident  converging  of  themselves,  as  it 
seems,  towards  the  supreme  incident  of  all,  —  this 
story  is  the  verbal  translation  of  the  images  resulting 
from  all  the  antecedent  drudgery.  In  short :  wher- 
ever there  is  '  creation/  whether  it  be  in  painting  or 


§  87.    Active  Imagination  205 

sculpture,  in  music  or  in  literature,  in  the  mechanic 
arts  or  in  science,  the  creation  is  the  image-product 
of  a  long  term  of  active  attention. 

Walter  Pater,  the  greatest  master  of  polished  English  Style. 
prose  that  the  century  has  seen,  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  of 
good  writing  that  one  should  acquire  an  instinctive  feeling 
for  the  metaphors  contained  in  words.  That  is,  one  should 
steadily  keep  in  mind  the  literal  meaning  of  words  like  '  in- 
volved,' '  insipid,'  '  essay,'  '  exasperate,'  etc.,  until  the  writ- 
ing of  the  word  came  to  be  always  and  invariably  connected 
with  the  arousal  in  consciousness  of  an  image,  picturing  its 
root  meaning.  When  we  want  to  copy  a  diagram,  he  said, 
we  lay  tissue-paper  over  it,  and  trace  its  outline  through  the 
paper.  Words  should  be  tissue-paper  tracings  of  the  writer's 
images ;  and  should  be  so  true  to  those  images  that,  when 
the  reader  lays  the  paper  over  his  images,  they  correspond 
just  as  truly  to  these.  —  Notice  that  this  is  a  matter  of 
secondary  passive  attention  with  the  writer,  while  it  may  be 
a  matter  either  of  primary  or  of  secondary  passive  atten- 
tion with  the  reader. 

The  word  '  creation '  points  to  a  characteristic  difference   The  differ- 
between  imagination  and  memory.     Memory,  whether  it  is  ence  between 

imagination 

visual  or  not,  is  always  bound  down  to  the  representation  and  memory. 
of  actual  past  events.  The  representation  may  not  be  cor- 
rect :  we  may  have  forgotten  parts  of  the  event,  and  features 
may  have  been  added  to  our  idea  of  it,  by  association,  which 
are  really  imagined  features  :  but  none  the  less  reference  to 
the  past  is  implicit  in  the  very  notion  of  memory,  and  the 
mark  of  familiarity  inclines  us  to  trust  what  memory  tells  us. 
Imagination,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  certain  freedom  about 
it ;  we  need  not  image  a  past  experience,  but  may  put 
things  together  '  out  of  our  own  heads '  and  not  as  they  have 
ever  occurred. 

The  difference  has  its  root  in  the  nature  of  passive  imagi- 
nation. As  you  read,  e.g.,  an  author's  description  of  his 
heroine,  you  read  about  her  hair,  eyes,  hands,  etc.,  succes- 


206  Memory  and  Imagination 

sively  ;  and  you  consequently  image  her  beauties  successively. 
The  hair  is  seen  by  itself,  the  eyes  by  themselves,  the  hands 
by  themselves ;  and  each  of  these  separate  images  is  now 
at  your  disposal  for  future  associations.  Had  you  seen  the 
heroine,  you  would  have  remembered  her  by  a  single,  total 
image.  —  Having  your  total  images  thus  broken  up  into 
detached  part-images,  you  can  imagine  centaurs  and  satyrs 
and  mermaids.  And  when  you  go  from  passive  to  active 
imagination,  —  when  you  are  working  over  a  mass  of  mate- 
rial for  some  artistic  purpose,  —  the  part-images  that  you 
select  naturally  fall  into  connections  of  their  own ;  the  re- 
sult is  something  new,  something  which  does  not  copy  expe- 
rience. 

The  limits  of       Notice,   however,   the    limits    of    imaginative    creation. 

imagination.  (^  ^ne  jaw  of  imaginative  connection  is  the  law  of 
memory  and  association  over  again;  there  is  no  new 
'power'  or  'faculty'  of  putting  images  together.  (2)  The 
images  themselves  are  the  images  used  in  memory  :  there 
is  no  intrinsic  difference  between  the  memory-idea  and  the 
imagination-idea.  You  cannot  imagine  a  colour,  over  and 
above  the  colours  that  you  know  :  the  most  you  can  do  is 
to  think  of  the  known  colours  as  mixed  in  unfamiliar  ways. 

Hawthorne's  Preface  to  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  gives 
the  reader  an  idea  of  the  mechanics  of  active  imagination ;  and, 
if  read  together  with  Mr.  Lathrop's  Introduction,  shows  the  inter- 
action of  passive  and  active  attention  in  the  construction  of 
a  story.  Poe's  paper  on  "The  Philosophy  of  Composition," 
whether  it  be  wholly  or  only  partly  sincere,  contains  a  great  deal 
of  sound  psychology. 

In  illustration  of  the  effort  of  attention  that  must  precede 
active  imagination  one  may  cite  the  story  told  of  M.  Puvis  de 
Chavannes.  The  painter  was  to  decorate  the  walls  and  ceiling 
of  a  room  in  fresco.  Before  setting  to  work,  he  spent  several 
days  in  earnest  contemplation  of  the  bare  surfaces.  When  re- 
monstrated with  for  this  'waste  of  time,1  he  replied:  "I  have  to 
see  my  picture  before  I  can  paint  it."  —  When  Sir  Henry  Irving 
is  rehearsing  a  new  part,  the  stage  becomes  gradually  strewn 
with  crumpled  fragments  of  paper,  on  each  of  which  some  'point* 


Questions  and  Exercises  207 

of  action  or  emphasis  has  been  jotted  down,  —  material  evidences 
of  the  labour  in  art  which  the  same  art  when  perfected  conceals. 

No  image  is  intrinsically  an  image  of  imagination  Associated 
(p.  189);  the  forming  of  the  imagination-conscious-  " 
ness  requires  the  presence  of  associated  ideas  and  of 
a  mood.  The  associates  are  those  of  the  memory- 
image,  minus  their  definite  temporal  and  spatial  co- 
efficients :  part-images  are  associated,  with  or  without 
effort,  to  make  a  total  image  which  does  not  corre- 
spond, as  total  image,  to  any  particular  event  of 
previous  experience.  As  for  the  mood :  while  the  and  affective 
perception  or  idea  which  starts  the  series  of  images 
in  passive  and  active  imagination  (the  printed  page 
of  the  novel,  a  photograph  of  the  Bayreuth  stage,  or 
what  not)  may  be  wholly  or  partly  unfamiliar,  the 
images,  of  themselves,  always  bring  the  at-home 
mood  with  them,  and  in  active  imagination  a  specific 
form  of  it,  the  mood  of  intellectual  ease  (§  97). 

Sometimes,  however,  the  arousal  of  this  mood  is  prevented :  in 
passive  imagination  by  the  novelty,  alarming  nature,  etc.,  of  the 
central  perception  or  idea ;  in  active  imagination  by  the  carrying 
over  of  active  attention  from  the  materials  of  imagination  to  the 
finished  product  (dissatisfaction  in  failure  to  realise  one's  ideal). 

Thus  our  visual  idea  of  a  coming  examination  (passive  imagi- 
nation) is  made  up  of  familiar  images.  But  other  associates  of 
the  word  '  examination '  may  be  so  disquieting  that  the  mood  of 
at-homeness  gives  place  to  that  of  anxiety.  Again :  if  the  sculp- 
tor has  failed  to  image  his  Siegfried  distinctly  (active  imagina- 
tion) after  his  active  analysis  of  the  Siegfried  tale,  he  will  realise 
that  he  '  might  have  done  better '  with  the  theme,  and  be  discon- 
tented with  himself  and  his  work.  —  Cf.  what  was  said  of  recog- 
nition :  §  79. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

I .  The  process  of  recognition  can  be  studied  in  various  ways, 
(i)  Prepare  a  series  of  some  20  of  the  commoner  scents.  They 
can  be  procured  from  any  chemist,  and  should  be  placed  in  small 


208  Memory  and  Imagination 

phials,  securely  corked,  and  wrapped  with  paper  so  that  the  sub- 
stance cannot  be  recognised  by  sight.  Let  the  subjects  smell 
them,  one  by  one,  and  give  an  introspective  account  of  the  men- 
tal processes  aroused  by  each.  Within  the  series  you  will  prob- 
ably obtain  recognitions  of  very  different  degrees  of  definiteness  ; 
from  the  puzzled  "I  know,  but  can't  remember"  to  a  clear-cut 
set  of  memory-ideas. 

This  experiment  can  be  made  to  throw  light  upon  mental  con- 
stitution. Prepare  a  longer  series  of,  say,  50  scents  ;  and  get  as 
many  different  orders  of  scents  as  you  can :  flower  perfumes, 
resins,  fruit  extracts,  chemicals,  etc.  Experiment  as  before  :  but 
note  what  kind  of  scent  appeals  most  definitely,  and  what  most 
indefinitely,  to  each  subject. 

(2)  The  following  experiment  shows  the  importance  of  the 
word-idea,  the  name,  in  recognition.     Have  a  photographer  pre- 
pare for  you  a  series  of  7  papers,  ranging  from  black  to  white 
through  five  greys.     Pick  out  of  the  7  a  series  of  5  :  black,  dark 
grey,  grey,  light  grey,  white.     Show  these  to  the  subject ;  and 
after  10  minutes'  interval  show  one  of  the  3  greys,  and  ask  what 
its  place  was  in  the  original  series.     Mistakes  will  be  very  rare, 
for  the  reason  that  the  paper  is  recognised  not  as  a  visual  quality 
but  by  the  name  'dark  grey,'  etc.  —  Now  form  a  series  of  the  5 
grey  papers.     As  the  possibility  of  naming  has  grown  less,  the 
accuracy  of  recognition  will  also  decrease. 

(3)  The  effect  of  lapse  of  time  upon  recognition  may  be 
tested  as  follows.     Strike  4  notes  at  random  from  any  octave 
of  the  piano      After  10  sec.  strike  some  one  of  the  4  alone,  and 
let  the  subject  write  down  his  recognition  of  it  as  the  first,  second, 
third  or  fourth  note  of  the  original  series.  —  Strike  4  others,  from 
a  different  octave,  and  wait  20  sec. ;  then  another  4,  and  wait  30 
sec. ;  and  so  on.     Note  the  point  at  which  mistakes  begin  to  be 
made,  and  the  point  at  which  recognition  ceases  to  be  possible. 
The  subject  should  be  cautioned  to  attend  to  the  notes  as  sounds, 
and  not  to  name  them. 

2.  Memory,  too,  can  be  approached  from  various  sides,  (i)  To 
test  the  accuracy  of  memory  one  may  have  recourse  to  two 
methods.  The  first  is  the  method  of  description.  Let  a  num- 
ber of  persons  write  out  from  memory  a  description  of  a  scene 
familiar  to  them  all.  Then  let  the  descriptions  be  compared, 
as  if  they  were  examination  papers,  and  marks  assigned  for  each 
of  the  points  remembered.  —  The  second  is  the  method  of  com- 


Questions  and  Exercises  209 

parison.  The  subjects  are  shown  a  picture  of  a  landscape,  a 
group  of  pieces  of  pottery,  a  furnished  room,  etc.,  or  listen  to 
a  piece  of  music  which  contains  a  number  of  movements,  changes 
of  expression,  etc.  They  are  told,  in  each  case,  to  attend  care- 
fully. After  the  lapse  of,  say,  an  hour,  they  are  asked  to  recall 
the  prominent  features  of  the  sight  or  sound  complex.  That 
done,  the  perception  is  repeated,  and  the  memory  compared 
with  it. 

Notice  that  the  memory  in  this  second  case  need  not  be  a 
memory  in  kind :  the  picture  may  be  remembered  in  words,  e.g. 
The  aim  of  the  experiment  is  to  discover  how  accurately  a  per- 
ception is  remembered  in  the  practical  sense  of  '  remembering,' 
—  how  far  it  is  available  for  use,  in  the  idea-form  that  the  par- 
ticular nervous  system  most  favours. 

(2 )  The  formation  of  a  brain-habit  may  be  roughly  tested  as 
follows.  Learn  a  stanza  of  poetry  by  heart,  reading  it  straight 
through  again  and  again  till  you  can  just  repeat  it.  Note  the 
number  of  readings  required.  Wait  till  the  stanza  has  been 
partly  forgotten,  —  say,  two  days.  Then  relearn,  in  the  same 
way.  Note  the  number  of  readings  required  for  accurate  repe- 
tition. Let  the  memory  lapse  again  :  wait,  sty,  four  days.  Then 
renew  the  readings,  —  and  so  on.  You  will  find  that  the  number 
of  readings  necessary  for  accurate  repetition  steadily  decreases 
with  the  number  of  experiments  made.  For  instance :  though 
you  may  be  very  uncertain  of  the  stanza  on  the  seventh  day,  you 
will  learn  it  in  a  less  number  of  readings  than  you  did  on  the 
third ;  and  though  you  may  have  '  quite  forgotten '  it  on  the 
thirteenth,  you  will  relearn  it  still  more  easily ;  and  so  on.  This 
advancing  easiness  of  learning  is  the  mental  side  of  the  forming 
of  a  brain-habit. 

3.  To  test  your  imagination,  (i)  read  through  a  scene  of 
some  play  which  you  have  not  seen  upon  the  stage.  Having 
read  it,  write  out  a  commentary,  saying  where  the  characters  are 
standing  from  moment  to  moment,  how  they  group  themselves, 
how  they  should  be  dressed,  what  the  general  colour-scheme  of 
the  scene  should  be,  etc.  Or  (2)  take  a  theme  like  'the  founder- 
ing of  a  passenger  steamer,'  or  'an  alarm  in  the  Turkish  outposts,' 
or  *  the  exploration  of  a  pyramid,'  and  make  a  word-picture  of  it, 
choosing  your  words  as  the  equivalents  of  what  your  mind  sees. 
Or  (3)  choose  someone  whom  you  know  to  be  of  imaginative 
turn,  and  describe  to  him  a  house  or  street  or  room  with  which 


2io  Memory  and  Imagination 

he  is  unfamiliar.  When  he  has  formed  his  mental  picture,  take 
him  to  the  spot,  and  let  him  compare  his  idea  with  the  reality. 
Your  words,  the  translation  of  your  images,  are  thus  tested  by 
retranslation  into  his  images. 

4.  What  are  the  literal  meanings  of  the  words  insipid,  in- 
volved, essay,  exasperate  ? 

5.  Should  maps  be  the  sole  visual  aids  allowed  to  the  student 
of  geography  ?     Give  reasons  for  your  answer. 

6.  Are  there  any  statements  in  this  Chapter  that  seem  to  ex- 
plain (i)  the  general  conservatism  of  human  society,  and  (2)  the 
fact  that  old  people  are  more  conservative  than  young? 

7.  One  sometimes  hears  it  affirmed  that  we  never  really  forget 
anything ;   that  everything  is  remembered  when  the  time  comes 
for  remembering  it.     How  would  you  account  for  this  opinion  ? 

8.  How  does  the  image  of  expectation  differ  from  the  memory- 
image  and  the  image  of  imagination? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  chs.  xviii.,  xix. 
Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  i.,  chs.  ix.,  x. 
Titchener,  Outline,  §§  70-80. 
Wundt,  Lectures,  Lects.  XIX.,  XX. 
Wundt,  Outlines,  §§  16,  17  B. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THOUGHT  AND  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS 
§  88.    Language.  —  Among  the  bodily  disturbances  Emotion 


that  express  emotion  are  certain  movements  of  limbs 


and  features  (§§  60,  61).  And  among  these,  again,  actions' 
we  noted  the  presence  of  gesture  movements.  Re- 
membering the  close  relation  that  emotion  bears  to 
impulse  in  the  developed  mind  (§  70),  we  are  forced 
to  believe  that  all  these  expressive  movements  are, 
in  their  origin,  of  the  nature  of  impulsive  actions. 
They  are  now  more  or  less  decayed,  more  or  less 
weakened  by  having  outlived  their  usefulness,  more 
or  less  modified  by  the  concurrence  of  the  other 
forms  of  affective  expression.  But,  in  themselves, 
the  wince  and  start  and  clenching  of  the  fist  are 
either  impulsive  actions  or  the  direct  descendants  of 
impulsive  actions  (§  74). 

Most  important  of  all  the  impulsive  expressions  andespe- 
of  emotion,  however,  are  movements  that  we  have  articulate 


so  far  taken  for  granted,  —  the  movements  of  the 
larynx  which,  in  man,  produce  articulate  speech. 
The  spoken  word  is  the  medium  of  thought,  as  the 
visual  idea  is  the  medium  of  imagination.  Hence 
the  problem  of  the  origin  and  development  of  lan- 
guage is  one  of  prime  importance  for  psychology. 

Gesture  movements  are  of  two  kinds.     The  one  The  two 

,  .     ,  ,        f     .     .  ,         ,    kinds  of 

kind    serves  principally  to  express   the  feel-side  of  gesture. 
the  emotion  (subjective  gesture);   the  other  to  ex- 

211 


212 


Thought  and  Self-consciousness 


press  its  situation-side  (objective  gesture).  The 
'  sour  look  '  upon  the  face  is  a  gesture  of  the 
former  sort;  the  pointing  of  the  finger  in  fear, 
the  threatening  with  the  fist  in  anger,  and  the 
drawing  of  an  object  in  rough  outline  by  hand 
movements  through  the  air,  are  objective  gestures. 
Vocal  sounds  —  cries,  calls,  exclamations  —  were  as- 
sociated from  the  first  with  both  these  classes  of 
gesture  ;  but  their  development  in  the  two  direc- 
tions has  been,  very  far  from  uniform.  Subjective 
speech  to-day  is  inarticulate,  or  at  most  merely 
inter  jectory  ;  objective  speech,  the  speech  whose 
function  it  is  to  communicate  ideas,  has  attained 
an  extraordinary  degree  of  complexity  in  the  va- 
rious languages  of  the  civilised  world. 

The  uttering  of  a  cry  under  stress  of  emotion  is  not  pecu- 
jjar  to  man  .  jt  can  ^e  observed  in  very  many  of  the  lower 

.  .  . 

animals,  and  especially  in  the  social  or  gregarious  animals. 
Moreover,  when  any  one  member  of  herd  or  flock  sounds 
the  'danger  note,'  the  whole  company  is  alarmed.  The 
sound  is  understood  ;  it  carries  a  meaning  with  it.  Hence 
it  is  perfectly  natural  that  the  first  attempts  at  the  distinc- 
tively human  language,  at  articulate  speech,  should  have 
been  understood.  The  utterance  of  one  tribesman  must 
have  meant  something  to  his  fellow-tribesmen,  —  all  the 
more  as  it  was  eked  out  by  objective  gesture. 

Language  This   mutual   understanding  within   a  herd   or  tribe   is 

possible  only   brought  about,  at  the  bidding  of  nature,  by  way  of  simul- 

jn  society.  '         ' 

taneous  association.  The  whole  company  has  been  sub- 
ject at  some  time,  let  us  suppose,  to  the  emotion  of  fear. 
Every  one  is  thus  made  familiar  with  the  expression  of  fear 
in  his  neighbour.  If,  therefore,  any  individual  '  shows  '  fear 
on  a  later  occasion,  his  companions  will  catch  the  emotion 
from  him,  without  themselves  facing  the  situation  which 


The  origin 
of  language 

is  the  warn- 

ing-note. 


§  89.    Thought  213 

he  is  confronting.  —  Our  understanding  of  a  friend's  con- 
versation, then,  is  the  outcome  of  a  lesson  learned  lower 
down  in  the  scale  of  life  at  the  stern  command  of  nature, 
a  lesson  in  which  failure  to  understand  meant  death. 

We  shall  never  know  what  were  the  first  words  that  our  The  earliest 
ancestors  pronounced  ;  but  it  is  highly  probable  that  they  words- 
were    imitative,   descriptive   words ;    words   which    supple- 
mented   the    gesture-drawing    in    the   air    by   adding    the 
sound  which  the  object  made.     On  the  other  hand,  we 
are  able  to  explain  the  fact  that  articulate  speech  has  so 
far  outrun  its  primitive  associate,  objective  gesture,  in  use- 
fulness.    In  the  first  place,   sounds  are  '  free,'  while   the  The  develop. 
limbs   are  tied  to  the  body.     Hence  more  variation  can  J"ent  of 

J  language. 

be  obtained  from  words  than  from  gestures  (cf.  the  superi- 
ority of  auditory  to  tactual  rhythm:  §  47).  Secondly, 
words  are  heard  more  easily  than  gestures  are  seen  :  they 
are  clearer-cut,  less  ambiguous,  can  be  better  apprehended 
from  a  distance,  etc.  Thirdly,  there  is  less  individuality 
about  words  than  about  gestures ;  it  is  more  difficult  for  two 
people  to  make  exactly  the  same  gesture  than  to  give  the 
same  sound.  Hence  the  word  is  the  better  symbol. 

Notice  how  the  first  beginnings  of  language  illustrate  Pro- 
fessor Wundt's  statement  (§  70)  that  the  general  animal  im- 
pulses are  the  earliest  forms  of  emotion.  The  danger  note 
may  be  regarded  either  as  an  expression  of  the  emotion  of 
fear,  or  as  an  impulsive  action. 

§  89.  Thought.  —  The  word  '  thought '  is  used  in  various  uses 
various  senses.  We  say,  "  I  can't  think  what  his 
name  is !"  when  we  should  say,  in  strictness,  "I  can't 
remember."  And  we  say,  "I  can't  think  how  you 
could  have  done  it !  "  when  we  should  say,  "  I  can't 
imagine."  Accurately  defined,  however,  thought  is 
the  verbal  counterpart  of  active  imagination.  Active 
imagination  is  thinking  in  images ;  thinking  is  active 
imagination  carried  on  in  words. 


214 


Thought  and  Self-consciousness 


Thought  the 
analogue  of 
active  imagi- 
nation. 


Words  and 
images. 


Changes  of 
sound  and 
meaning  in 
words. 


An  account  of  the  mechanism  of  thought  will  be 
nothing  more,  therefore,  than  the  account  of  §  87, 
with  '  words  '  substituted  for  '  images  '  in  every  case. 
The  thinker  comes  to  his  subject-matter  in  the  state 
of  active  attention;  works  over  it,  feature  by  feature; 
and  finally  reaches  a  verbal '  conclusion '  as  the  result 
of  the  term  of  effort,  —  precisely  as  the  painter  faces 
his  mass  of  image  material,  and  produces  his  picture 
after  a  period  of  strenuous  endeavour.  And  there 
is  a  further  likeness.  Thought,  which  in  psychology 
is  only  one  process  amongst  others,  forms  the  sole 
subject  -of  a  special  science,  logic ;  and  imagination, 
also  one  psychological  process  amongst  many,  is  the 
sole  subject  of  the  science  of  aesthetics.  Logic  has 
reached  a  far  higher  level  of  development,  however, 
than  aesthetics ;  so  that  we  have  in  this  Chapter  a 
good  number  of  technical  thought-terms  to  define 
and  explain.  The  farther  a  science  advances,  the 
more  complicated  does  its  word-machinery  become. 

The  difference  between  the  word  and  the  image  is  that 
the  latter  is  photographic,  a  copy  of  reality,  while  the  for- 
mer is  symbolic  (§  41),  a  sign  of  a  reality  which  is  wholly 
unlike  itself.  There  is  a  close  resemblance  between  the 
inventor's  mental  forecast  of  a  machine  and  the  actual 
machine ;  there  is  none  between  the  word  '  telephone ' 
and  the  actual  telephone.  We  must  remember,  however, 
that  the  earliest  words  were,  in  all  probability,  photographic, 
—  sound-images :  it  was  only  by  slow  degrees  that  the 
word  acquired  its  symbolic  character.  On  the  one  hand, 
the  sound  of  the  word  became  modified  by  frequent  use, 
by  climatic  conditions,  by  growing  ease  of  articulation, 
etc. ;  on  the  other,  the  meaning  became  modified,  as  the 
idea  which  was  originally  expressed  grew  more  definite 


§  90.  Judgment  and  Reasoning  215 

and  accurate,  or  was  altogether  ousted  by  a  newer  idea. 
Change  of  sound  and  change  of  meaning  have  deprived 
words  of  their  primitive  naturalness,  of  their  life-likeness  to 
the  ideas  which  are  expressed  by  them.  And  as  the  sound- 
images  gradually  ceased  to  be  sound-images,  and  became 
symbolic,  other  words  came  into  use,  which  could  never 
have  been  sound-images,  —  words,  e.g.,  which  symbolised 
visual  or  tactual,  not  auditory  impressions. 

These  facts  help  us  to  answer  a  very  common  question :   Can  we 
the  question  whether  we  can  'think'  without  words.     If  we  <think 

out  words? 

go  back  to  the  beginnings  of  thought,  to  the  time  when 
active  imagination  and  thought  were  identical,  we  must 
answer  yes,  —  active  imaging  can  be  done  without  words,  and 
active  imaging  is  the  earliest  kind  of  thought.  If  we  take 
'  thought '  in  the  narrower  sense,  the  answer  will  be  negative. 

§  90.  Judgment  and  Reasoning.  —  The  simplest  Thejudg- 
thought-process,  the  unit  of  thinking,  is  the  judg- 
ment. Certain  material  is  presented,  and  worked 
over  in  the  state  of  active  attention.  Some  one  feat- 
ure, or  some  group  of  features,  is  selected,  drawn  out 
from  the  mass ;  is  supplemented  by  associated  ideas ; 
and  so  forms  a  new  total  idea.  Henceforth,  in  place 
of  the  original,  undifferentiated  material,  we  have  a 
judgment ;  there  are  two  complexes  instead  of  one. 
We  have,  on  the  one  hand,  the  original  mass,  in  the 
state  in  which  its  working-over  by  the  attention  has 
left  it,  and  on  the  other  the  supplemented  aspect  or 
feature  of  the  mass.  The  first  of  these  is  expressed 
by  a  word  which  we  call  the  '  subject,'  the  second  by 
what  is  called  the  '  predicate '  of  the  judgment.  The 
holding  together  of  the  crude  material,  and  the  hold- 
ing together  of  subject  and  predicate,  are  both  alike 
matters  of  association. 


216  Thought  and  Self-consciousness 

Reasoning.  It  is  but  seldom,  however,  that  the  material  is 
exhausted  by  a  single  judgment.  As  a  rule,  the 
forming  of  one  judgment  suggests  the  forming  of 
another;  so  that  we  have  a  train  of  judgments,  or 
reasoning.  The  train  of  judgments,  like  the  train 
of  ideas,  is  held  together  by  successive  association. 

The  splitting  up  of  the  material  in  judgment  must  not 
be  understood  as  a  simple  halving,  to  be  followed  by  an 
equally  simple  rejoining.  In  the  first  place,  the  feature 
seized  upon  by  the  attention  is  not  taken  bodily  out  of  the 
material :  it  persists  as  part  of  the  subject.  In  the  second, 
the  predicate  is  not  merely  the  feature  of  the  mass  that  the 
attention  seized  upon ;  it  is  that  feature  supplemented  by 
other,  connected  ideas.  —  Let  us  take  an  instance. 

Instance  of  Suppose  that  flints,  which  appear  to  have   upon   them   the 

judgment.  marks  of  human  workmanship,  are  found  in  a  Pliocene  bed, 
which  has  apparently  remained  undisturbed.  The  archaeologist 
is  called  upon  to  decide  whether  this  is  reliable  evidence  of  the 
existence  of  man  in  Tertiary  times.  First  of  all  he  forms  a  series 
of  judgments  as  to  the  disturbance  or  non-disturbance  of  the 
bed :  feature  after  feature  is  attended  to,  and  each  in  its  turn 
supplemented  by  ideas  derived  from  previous  knowledge.  The 
outcome  of  the  judgment-series,  of  the  reasoning,  is  a  final  judg- 
ment: "This  bed  has  not  been  disturbed."  The  original  total 
idea  of  '  Pliocene-bed-undisturbed '  has  been  worked  over ;  the 
'undisturbed ness1  drawn  out  from  it  and  supplemented;  and 
the  two  ideas  put  together  again  as  subject  and  predicate  of  a 
judgment. 

The  same  course  is  taken  with  regard  to  the  flints.  The 
investigator  starts  with  the  total  idea  of '  humanly  worked  flints,' 
and  transforms  it  into  the  judgment :  "  These  flints  are  of  human 
workmanship."  Then  the  two  final  judgments  are  united,  and  the 
conclusion  is  reached  that  man  existed  on  the  earth  in  the  Tertiary 
period. 

This  instance  may  seem  to  be  unnecessarily  complicated. 
The  reader  may  know  nothing  of  geological  periods  or  the 
problems  of  archaeology.  Why  should  one  choose  such  an 


§  9°-  Judgment  and  Reasoning  217 

illustration,  instead  of  taking  a  simple  sentence  like :  "  The 
grass  is  green?" 

The  reason  is  that  judging,  thinking,  is  a  process  of  rare  Judgment  a 
occurrence  in  consciousness.  Man  has  dubbed  himself  rare  Process< 
homo  sapiens,  and  defined  himself  as  '  rational  animal ' ; 
but  he  rarely  thinks.  For  we  are,  all  of  us,  born  into  a 
society  where  judgments  await  us  ready-made ;  every  gen- 
eration receives  a  heritage  of  judgments  from  the  preceding 
generations.  Hence  facts  that  cost  our  ancestors  immense 
pains  to  work  out  come  to  us  as  matters  of  course.  Society 
is  already  organised  :  then  we  need  not  trouble  ourselves  to 
make  judgments  about  social  organisation.  A  form  of  re- 
ligion is  established  :  we  need  not  judge  for  ourselves  in 
religious  matters.  A  code  of  conduct  has  been  laid  down  : 
we  need  not  judge  in  matters  of  conduct.  The  applications 
of  scientific  principle  are  to  be  seen  all  about  us :  we  need 
not  understand  the  principles, — we  may  take  the  steam- 
engine  and  the  telegraph  for  granted.  Life  is  made  smooth 
for  us  by  the  accumulated  work  of  past  generations.  And 
even  if  we  wish  to  judge  for  ourselves,  there  are  so  many 
past  judgments  on  record  in  books,  and  so  many  others  to 
be  had  for  the  asking  from  our  elders,  that  independent 
thought  is  difficult.  - —  It  follows  from  all  this  that  propo- 
sitions like  "  The  grass  is  green  "  are  not  judgments  at  all ; 
they  do  not  express  results  which  we  have  gained  labori- 
ously by  active  attention.  That  they  have  the  form  of 
judgment  may  be  due  either  to  the  fact  that  they  were 
judgments  once,  generations  ago,  or  merely  to  the  fact  that 
we  cannot  utter  more  than  one  word  at  a  time,  and  must 
therefore  give  the  parts  of  our  idea  successively.  It  is 
only  when  (as  in  the  instance  given)  a  total  idea  is  actively 
divided  up  that  true  judgment  occurs. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  we  think  less  than   But  man 
our  forefathers  did.     They  did  not  sit  down,  in  any  partial-  *      'udgCi 
lar  century,  and  actively  discuss  forms  of  social  organisation 
and  codes  of  conduct,  thus  arriving  at  a  judgment  which  we 
sluggishly  accept.     Their  thinking  was  done  as  ours  is,  little 


218 


Thought  and  Self-consciousness 


and  this 
raises  him 
high  above 
the  animals. 


The  material 
which  calls 
for  a  judg- 
ment to  set 
it  in  order  is 
termed  an 
aggregate 
idea. 


bit  by  bit.  But  this  is  the  point :  that  thinking  is  confined 
for  most  of  us,  as  it  always  has  been  for  the  majority  of 
mankind,  to  some  one  corner  of  the  field  of  knowledge,  and 
to  a  few  years  of  our  life.  Outside  of  our  '  special  subject ' 
we  accept  what  other  people  tell  us ;  and  when  we  have 
passed  beyond  early  manhood,  our  thought  moves  but  lazily 
even  there,  —  we  are  slaves  of  the  brain-habits  set  up  in 
youth.  When  the  channels  of  such  acquired  tendencies  are 
supplied  by  numerous  tributaries,  when  the  train  of  habitual 
ideas  is  richly  supplemented  by  associates,  we  have  talent; 
when  active  thought  continues  into  mature  life,  genius. 

Again  :  we  must  not  lose  sight  of  the  advantage  that  even 
a  little  thinking  gives  man  over  the  animals.  There  is  evi- 
dence that  the  higher  animals  are,  at  times,  actively  imagi- 
native (§§  31,  32).  But  it  is  highly  significant  that,  although 
many  of  them  have  the  physical  means  of  speech,  man  alone 
has  developed  an  articulate  language,  the  vehicle  of  sym- 
bolic imagination  or  thought.  The  very  fact  that  he  can 
accept  judgments  ready  made,  that  he  can  be  passively 
attentive  to  groups  of  word-ideas,  is  a  clear  indication  of 
his  mental  superiority. 

§  91.  Aggregate  Ideas  and  Concepts.  —  The  'material ' 
which  is  worked  over  and  divided  up  by  the  attention 
in  judgment  or  active  imagination  consists  of  per- 
ceptions, ideas,  tags  of  meaning  and  what  not,  —  a 
mixed  medley  of  the  processes  derived  from  sensation. 
It  is  not  an  idea,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word ; 
sometimes,  it  is  not  even  a  complex  of  simultaneous 
associates ;  idea  may  follow  idea  within  it,  by  suc- 
cessive association.  Nevertheless,  it  has  a  peculiar 
singleness  of  character,  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
meaning  of  the  central  idea  in  the  total  complex 
remains  the  same  throughout.  It  is  therefore  given 
a  special  name,  aggregate  idea. 


§  9i.    Aggregate  Ideas  and  Concepts         219 

Instances  of  aggregate  ideas  that  we  have  had  so  far  are 
those  of  Siegfried  and  his  adventures,  the  playing  of  Hamlet, 
the  plot  of  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  Pliocene-bed- 
undisturbedness,  humanly-worked-flintness.  In  each  case 
the  dominant  idea  of  the  aggregate,  the  '  topic '  of  thought, 
remains  unchanged  through  all  the  changes  of  associated 
ideas.  —  A  good  illustration  is  afforded  by  the  idea  of  the 
coming  sentence  that  you  have  in  mind  before  you  speak. 
There  must  be  some  total  idea  already  formed,  or  you  could 
not  carry  your  sentence  to  its  end  grammatically ;  but  it  is  a 
total  idea,  a  mass  which  has  not  yet  taken  on  the  judgment 
form. 

It  cannot  but  happen,  when  one  considers  the  con-  The  concept 
stancy  of  man's  physical  surroundings,  the  routine 
character  of  daily  life,  that  one  and  the  same  feature 
will  attract  the  attention  in  a  large  number  of  aggre- 
gate ideas.  In  other  words :  there  will  be  many 
judgments  in  which  the  subjects  are  different,  but 
the  predicates  the  same.  A  predicate  which  is 
common  to  several  judgments  is  termed  a  concept. 

The  aggregate  idea  may  be  made  up  of  images  or  of  sym-   The  abstract 
bols  (words,  tags  of  meaning).     The  concept  is  always  a  idea< 
symbolic  process,  and  nearly  always  a  word  :  when  we  speak 
of  the  corresponding  image-process,  we  term  it  not  concept 
but  abstract  idea.     Thus  the  word  '  horse  '  is  a  concept ;  it 
may  be  predicated  of  a  vast  number  of  animals.     But  the 
animal-picture  in  my  mind  which  stands  for  the  typical, 
standard  horse  is  an  abstract  idea.     The  abstract  idea,  then, 
is  made  up  of  images  which  have  attracted  the  attention  in 
a  long  series  of  aggregate  ideas. 

There  has  been  much  dispute,  in  the  history  of  psychology,   The  contrc- 
with  regard  to  the  nature  of  abstract  ideas.     John  IJocke  (1632-   versy  con- 
1704),  the  founder  of  modern  empirical  psychology,  speaks  in  his    c 
Essay  concerning  Human  Understanding  of  the  abstract  idea  of 
a  triangle  as  an  imagined  figure  which  is  "  neither  oblique  nor 
rectangle,  neither  equilateral,  equicrural,  nor  scalenon,  but  all 


22O  Thought  and  Self-consciousness 

and  none  of  these  at  once."  George  Berkeley  (1685-1753), 
who  ranks  only  after  Hume  in  the  subtlety  of  his  metaphysical 
thought,  criticises  Locke  in  these  terms :  "  If  any  man  has  the 
faculty  of  framing  in  his  mind  such  an  idea  of  a  triangle  as  is 
here  described,  it  is  in  vain  to  pretend  to  dispute  him  out  of  it,  nor 
would  I  go  about  it.  All  I  desire  is  that  the  reader  would  fully  and 
certainly  inform  himself  whether  he  has  such  an  idea  or  no.  .  .  . 
The  idea  of  '  man '  that  I  frame  to  myself  must  be  either  of  a 
white  or  a  black  or  a  tawny,  a  straight  or  a  crooked,  a  tall  or  a 
low  or  a  middle-sized  man.  I  cannot  by  any  effort  of  thought 
conceive  the  abstract  idea  above  described." 

What  are  the  facts?  (i)  In  many  cases,  there  certainly  may 
be  an  abstract  idea  of  the  kind  that  Locke  describes.  Take,  e.g., 
the  abstract  idea  of  'horse.'  If  real  horses  are  so  much  alike 
that  I  can  at  once  recognise  every  separate  specimen  as  a  horse, 
there  will  evidently  be  distinct  marks  of  '  horsiness '  that  can 
be  represented  in  the  abstract  idea :  a  peculiar  wavy  outline,  a 
peculiar  posture,  a  mane,  etc.  My  idea  will  not  be  the  picture 
of  any  special  horse,  but  a  picture  of  average  horsiness. 
(2)  Where  the  individuals  differ  so  much  as  the  individual  tri- 
angles do,  no  such  idea  is  possible  at  any  given  moment.  But 
an  idea  is  a  process :  it  need  not  all  be  present  at  the  given 
moment.  Hence  I  may  have  an  abstract  idea  of  a  triangle  in 
the  sense  that  equilateral  and  scalene  and  isosceles  triangles 
melt  into  one  another,  in  quick  succession,  like  dissolving  views. 
The  group  of  processes  would  mean  '  triangle,'  and  not  '  tri- 
angles'  ;  and  so  might  be  fairly  termed  an  idea.  (3)  As  a  rule, 
however,  the  abstract  idea  (while  it  still  remains  abstract  so  far 
as  meaning  is  concerned)  takes  the  form  of  the  memory-idea  of 
a  particular  object.  When  we  learned  geometry  at  school,  we 
found  in  our  text-books  little  equilateral  figures  which  stood  for 
the  word  'triangle.'  It  is  probable,  then,  that  when  we  think 
of  'triangle'  in  the  abstract  we  see  one  of  these  little  figures. 
Our  abstract  triangle  is  not  a  triangle  of  all  sorts,  but  an  equi- 
lateral triangle.  So  our  abstract  horse  will  probably  have  a  good 
deal  of  some  particular  horse  about  it.  The  abstract  idea  is  on  its 
way  to  become  symbolic.  (4)  Since  we  are  born  into  a  world 
of  words,  we  learn  concept-words  long  before  we  learn  to  think, 
and  associate  them  hap-hazard  to  the  objects  first  called  by  their 
names.  In  after  life,  the  picture  of  this  hap-hazard  object  often 
serves  as  the  abstract  idea  corresponding  to  the  concept.  Thus 


§  92.    Comparison,  Relation  and  Abstraction     221 

the  author's  abstract  idea  of  '  hour '  consists  of  the  picture  of  a 
small  outline  square  drawn  on  a  white  background ;  and  this 
square  is  one  of  the  squares  of  the  daily  report-cards  upon  which 
the  marks  for  every  hour's  work  were  entered  at  the  first  school 
that  he  attended.  In  a  case  known  to  him,  the  abstract  idea  of 
'squareness1  is  a  mental  picture  of  one  of  the  wood-squares  in 
which  honey-comb  b  sold.  A  symbolic  picture  of  this  kind  may 
under  certain  circumstances  oust  the  word,  and  itself  take  on  the 
functions  of  the  concept. 

§  92.  Comparison,  Relation  and  Abstraction.  —  In  the  The  logic  of 
logical  treatment  of  thought  we  find  frequent  mention  |h°l!fsy' ai 
of  the  processes  of  comparison  or  discrimination,  of  choiogyof 
relation  and  of  abstraction.  The  terms  serve  a  use- 
ful purpose  in  logic,  since  they  enable  the  logician  to 
divide  up  his  subject  into  parts,  and  to  discuss  it  part 
by  part.  On  the  other  hand,  they  have  been  the 
source  of  much  confusion  in  psychology.  Psycholo- 
gists have  been  inclined  to  think  that,  as  they  stand 
for  different  processes  in  logic,  they  must  also  stand 
for  distinct  processes  in  psychology  ;  'so  that  the  mind 
must  be  regarded  as  endowed  with  a  peculiar  power 
of  discrimination,  with  another  power  of  relating, 
etc.,  —  or  at  least  that  thought  or  judgment  must  be 
ranked  as  a  fundamental  psychological  process  along- 
side of  sensation  and  affection. 

Plainly,  however,  psychology  cannot  allow  logic  to 
settle  a  question  of  this  sort.  We  must  find  out,  for 
ourselves,  what  the  words  mean  when  they  are  trans- 
lated into  psychological  processes  ;  and  then  we  must 
decide  for  ourselves  (by  an  appeal  to  introspection) 
whether  or  not  the  psychological  processes  are  of  a 
new  kind,  or  of  a  kind  already  familiar  to  us. 

There  is  no  difficulty  in  discovering  what  goes  on  Comparison, 
in  our  own  minds  when  we  compare  and  relate  and 
abstract,     (i)  When  we  compare,  we  look  at  two  ob- 


222 


Thought  and  Self -consciousness 


relation, 


abstraction, 


and  their 
correspond- 
ing concepts. 


jects  or  two  ideas  attentively,  the  one  after  the  other, 
and  presently  find  in  consciousness  the  word  '  like '  or 
'  different/  set  in  the  mood  of  ease  or  of  vague  dis- 
comfort. That  is  all.  Sometimes  the  comparison 
is  passive :  the  word  arises  without  thought,  by  way 
of  successive  association.  Sometimes  it  is  active ; 
the  word  arises  as  the  predicate  of  a  judgment. 
(2)  The  same  thing  is  true  of  relation.  When  one 
idea  succeeds  another  in  the  train  of  ideas,  the  two 
are  by  that  very  fact  brought  into  relation  with  each 
other :  this  is  passive  relating.  And  when  the  feat- 
ure drawn  out  of  the  aggregate  idea  by  the  attention 
has  been  supplemented,  and  the  new  complex  is 
predicated  of  the  old,  the  two  are,  again,  brought 
into  relation :  this  is  active  relating.  (3)  Lastly : 
when  the  attention  has  drawn  the  predicate-feature 
out  of  the  aggregate  idea,  the  process  of  abstraction 
has  taken  place.  We  have  '  abstracted '  the  feature, 
'  abstracted  from '  (neglected)  the  rest  of  the  idea. 

The  reader  will  recall  the  parallel  discussion  in  the  case  of  recogni- 
tion (§  79).  When  a  perception  has  the  mark  of  familiarity,  there  is  a 
'  recognition '  before  us  :  we  find  no  peculiar  process  of  recognising, 
over  and  above  the  addition  of  the  familiarity  mark.  So  when  two 
ideas  associate,  there  is  a  relation  before  us :  we  find  no  process  of  re- 
lating, over  and  above  the  associative  connection.  Red  and  yellow  are 
related,  because  they  arouse  the  same  mood  in  us,  i.e.,  connect  with  the 
same  organic  sensations ;  the  ideas  of '  greater  '  and  '  less  '  are  related, 
because  they  connect  with  the  same  general  concept  of  magnitude;  etc. 
The  formula  of  relation  is  always  ab-bc. 

Note  that,  while  the  natural  moods  of  the  comparing  consciousness 
are  as  given  above,  they  may  be  modified  by  circumstances  :  cf.  p.  191. 

The  processes  themselves,  then,  are  all  old  friends. 
Nevertheless,  they  offer  a  new  problem  for  solution. 
How  do  we  come  to  name  them  ?  The  names  '  com- 
parison,' '  relation,'  etc.,  are  evidently  concepts  ;  but, 
as  evidently,  they  are  concepts  of  a  different  order 


§  92.   Comparison,  Relation  and  Abstraction     223 

from  those  mentioned  in  §  91.  The  concept  'horse' 
has  an  abstract  idea  corresponding  to  it,  an  idea 
made  up  from  many  perceived  horses.  But  'rela- 
tion' and  'abstraction'  are  just  words;  there  is 
nothing  in  perception,  nothing  in  visual  idea,  that 
corresponds  to  them.  Granted  that  two  associated 
ideas  are  related,  how  did  we  ever  come  to  attend  to 
the  fact  of  their  relation  as  something  quite  apart 
and  distinct  from  them  and  their  meaning? 

The  question  is  one  that  psychology  is,  undoubt- 
edly, called  upon  to  answer.  And  it  can  be  answered 
only  by  following  out  the  history  of  mental  develop- 
ment, and  more  especially  of  mental  development  as 
borne  witness  to  by  language.  This  history  shows 
(cf.  §  61)  that  all  concepts  were  originally  of  the 
'  horse '  kind,  words  that  stood  for  definite  abstract 
ideas.  As  thought  advanced,  however,  words  were 
used  more  freely,  with  less  and  less  of  reference  to 
any  corresponding  abstract  idea :  objects  of  thought 
took  their  place  alongside  of  objects  of  perception. 
Now,  we  have  a  large  stock  of  verbal  ideas,  all  with 
clear-cut  and  valuable  meanings,  which  stand  not  for 
things  or  processes  of  the  outside  world,  but  simply 
for  our  own  interpretations  of  these  things  and  pro- 
cesses, for  thought-objects ;  and  among  them  are  to 
be  counted  the  concept-ideas  of  relation  and  com- 
parison and  abstraction  with  which  logic,  the  science 
of  thought,  has  to  deal. 

To  trace  out  the  development  of  concepts  in  detail  would 
be  to  write  a  Chapter,  and  that  not  a  short  one,  in  the  psy- 
chology of  language  (see  §  120).  We  can  no  more  do  that 
here  than  we  can  write  Chapters  in  the  psychology  of  custom 


224 


Thought  and  Self-consciousness 


The  history 
of  a  con- 
cept-word. 


The  per- 
ceived self. 


or  art  or  law :   it  would  take  us  too  far  afield.     A  single 
instance  must  suffice. 

If  a  logician  were  speaking  of  the  relation  which  the  concept 
'  whiteness '  bears  to  the  substance  '  snow,'  he  would  call  it  an 
attribute  of  that  substance.  An  attribute  is  a  characteristic  or 
property  or  mark  of  a  substance.-  How  has  the  concept  been 
formed  ? 

We  find  in  English,  German  and  Latin  the  words  thorp,  Dorf 
and  tribus,  which  are  all,  philologically,  the  same  word.  Tribus 
means  ( tribe';  and  thorp  and  Dorf  mean  'village.'  The  origi- 
nal meaning  of  the  three,  then,  is  that  of  a  community,  a  society 
of  men.  — In  Latin  we  find  the  verb  tribuo, '  to  assign '  or  'give ' ; 
and  the  past  participle  of  this  is  kept  in  the  English  tribute. 
( Tribute '  means  '  what  is  done  by  the  tribe ' ;  and  '  what  is  done 
by  the  tribe '  is  to  pay  for  protection,  to  give  or  bestow  some- 
thing upon  a  chieftain  or  a  more  powerful  tribe  in  return  for 
favours  received.  The  special  meaning  retained  in  '  tribute'  has 
become  a  general  meaning  ('  to  give,'  simply)  in  the  verb  tribuo. 
—  Finally,  from  tribuo  comes  '  attribute,'  that  which  is  assigned 
or  granted  to  something.  It  is  a  long  road  that  leads  from  the 
village  community  through  the  assessment  of  the  community  to 
the  logical  characteristic ;  but  it  is  without  doubt  the  road  that 
this  concept  travelled. 

§  93.  The  Concept  of  Self.  —  We  have  in  the  con- 
cept of  self  an  exceedingly  good  instance  of  concepts 
in  general.  For  on  the  image  side  we  have  various 
stages,  from  the  perception  of  self  to  its  abstract 
idea ;  and  on  the  word  side  similar  stages,  from  the 
concept  corresponding  to  the  abstract  idea  up  to  a 
concept  that  has  been  refined  to  the  utmost  limits  of 
logical  subtlety.  It  will  be  worth  while,  therefore, 
to  find  out  as  definitely  as  we  can  what  comes  into 
consciousness  along  with  the  words  '  I '  and  '  me ' 
and  '  my.' 

(i)  The  primitive,  perceptual  self  is  made  up  chiefly 
of  a  mass  of  cutaneous  and  organic  sensations,  partly 


§  93-    The  Concept  of  Self  225 

of  visual  sensations, — the  whole  overlaid  with  an  af- 
fection. Your  'self,'  the  self  that  you  perceive  at  this 
moment,  is  probably  composed  of  pressures,  tempera- 
tures, strains,  breaths,  etc. ;  that  is,  a  certain  total 
effort  or  comfortableness  or  headachiness :  together 
with  the  visual  perception  of  hands  and  clothes. 
That  is  you,  as  you  perceive  yourself.  Perhaps  you 
were  not  thinking  of  yourself  at  all  until  you  began 
to  read  this  Section ;  but  now  that  your  attention 
is  called  to  yourself,  the  perceived  self  comes  out 
plainly :  you  realise  that  your  glasses  need  adjust- 
ing, that  your  position  must  be  shifted,  that  your 
forehead  had  better  be  relaxed,  that  your  collar  is 
sitting  too  tightly,  that  you  have  set  about  reading 
too  soon  after  dinner,  and  so  on.  All  this  mass  of 
felt  sensations  is  yourself. 

Dr.  Charles  Mercier,  writing  of  the  perceived  self  from  the  medical 
standpoint,  emphasises  the  part  played  by  sensations  from  the  alimen- 
tary canal  "  Self  means  stomach,"  he  says.  "  The  function  of  assimi- 
lating food  is  the  most  fundamental  of  all  the  functions ;  it  is  antecedent 
even  to  locomotion  and  propagation.  Hence  anything  which  directly 
affects  the  organism  as  a  whole  affects  the  stomach,"  —  and  it  is  the 
alimentary  organic  sensations  that  loom  largest  in  the  perception  of 
self.  Flechsig,  too,  emphasises  the  importance  of  the  cortical  centre 
for  touch  and  organic  sensation  in  the  make-up  of  the  perceptual  self. 

(2)  The  idea  of  self  consists  principally  of  a  visual  The  idea  of 

self. 

picture  of  one's  body  and  its  usual  surroundings. 
You  see  yourself  seated  in  your  accustomed  chair, 
clothed  in  your  usual  way,  busied  about  your  usual 
occupations.  This  self-figure  is  seen  upon  a  dim 
and  shifting  background  made  up  of  memory-images 
of  past  experiences. 

It  is  not  often,  however,  that  the  self  comes  to 
mind  so  definitely  as  this  description  would  imply. 
Q 


226  Thought  and  Self-consciousness 

The  abstract  The  idea  is  for  the  most  part  an  abstract  idea :  the 
figure  is  more  shadowy,  and  the  background  clearer. 
What  precisely  the  background  is  will  depend  upon 
the  direction  of  thought  at  the  time :  it  may  be  a 
professional  or  a  social  or  a  moral  or  a  national  or 
a  religious  background.  In  other  words :  the  self- 
consciousness  is  made  up  of  the  verbal  idea  '  I '  (the 
concept),  of  a  vague  picture  of  the  clothed  figure, 
and  of  a  mass  of  images  of  professional  experiences, 
social  incidents,  etc. 

How  shadowy  the  figure-self  may  become  is  amusingly  illus- 
trated by  a  story  that  Professor  Mach,  of  Vienna,  tells  in  his 
book  on  the  Analysis  of  Sensations.  "I  got  into  an  omnibus 
one  morning,"  he  writes,  "  after  a  tiring  night  on  the  train,  just 
as  some  one  else  was  entering  from  the  tar  end.  '  Some  broken- 
down  schoolmaster,'  I  thought.  It  was  myself:  there  was  a  large 
mirror  opposite  the  omnibus  door."  The  professional  figure  was 
recognised  before  the  personal  figure. 

The  logical  (3)  Finally  we  have  the  logical  self,  the  bare  con- 
cept of  the  'I'  or  the  'ego.'  This  has  been  gained 
by  abstraction  from  the  social,  professional,  moral, 
etc.,  self-concepts;  it  is  a  sort  of  short-hand  term 
for  them  all.  Its  meaning  differs  very  considerably 
in  different  philosophical  systems.  Psychologically 
regarded,  it  stands  on  the  same  level  with  the  con- 
cepts of  relation,  etc. :  it  does  not  correspond  to  any 
thing  or  process  of  the  outside  world,  —  the  self-con- 
cept which  does  that  is  the  concept  discussed  above 
under  (2),  —  but  stands  simply  for  the  philosopher's 
special  interpretation  of  selfhood,  i.e.,  for  a  thought- 
object. 

The  difference  between  this  '  I '  and  the  preceding  '  I ' 
may  not  be  quite  clear,  at  first.  It  becomes  clear,  when 


§  94-    Self-consciousness  227 

once  the  two  I-experiences  have  been  compared.  How- 
ever far  the  first  I-concept  is  removed  from  the  perceived 
self,  it  is  still  the  concept  of  oneself,  —  you  '  feel '  that  it  is 
you  that  are  meant.  As  you  read  about  the  other  '  I,'  you 
are  left  quite  cold ;  it  does  not  strike  you  that  the  author 
means  you:  the  '  I '  is  just  an  indifferent  word  with  an  indif- 
ferent meaning,  like  '  reality '  or  any  other  philosophical  term. 

§  94.    Self-consciousness.  —  A  self-consciousness  is  a  The  seif- 

.....  . ,        r     i  <•         conscious- 

consciousness  in  which  the  concept  or  idea  of  self,  or  ness- 

some  phase  or  part  of  it,  is  present  in  the  state  of  at- 
tention, and  thus  serves  as  a  centre  of  association  for 
other  ideas.  Thus  the  introspective  consciousness  is 
a  self-consciousness  :  the  psychologist  attends  to  some 
mental  process  which  belongs  to  himself,  which  forms 
part  of  his  experience  and  can  never  form  part  of  that 
of  another  man  (§5).  In  everyday  life,  the  self -con- 
sciousness is  usually  a  highly  affective  consciousness; 
when  we  think  of  ourselves,  it  is  with  marked  self- 
satisfaction  or  with  equally  marked  humiliation. 
These  processes,  '  sentiments '  as  they  are  called, 
will  occupy  us  in  the  following  Chapter. 

The  discussion  of  self-consciousness  filled  a  large  place   The  problem 

in  the  older  psychology,  in  which  the  mind  was  supposed  ofself-con- 

rr  sciousness  in 

somehow  to  turn  inwards  upon  itself  and  observe  itself,  —  the  old 
being  endowed  with  a  peculiar  '  inner  sense  '  which  enabled 
it  to  do  this.  Modern  psychology  makes  no  mention  of  an 
inner  sense  :  for  it,  introspection  means  simply  attentive 
experiencing,  attentive  remembering  and  attentive  trans- 
lation into  words  (Ch.  II.). 

For  us,  therefore,  the  problem  of  self-consciousness  re-   and  in  the 
solves  itself  into  the  question  how  the  idea  and  concept   new  Psycho1" 
of  self  are  formed.     We  have  seen  that  the  earliest  idea 
of  self  is  the  idea  of  the  bodily  self;  and  the  body,  whether 
it  be  our  own  body  or  another,  is  an  object  of  perception, 


228  Thought  and  Self -consciousness 

an  object  of  the  outside  world  (Ch.  VI. ;  cf.  §  58).  The 
idea  of  self  is  therefore  formed  at  the  bidding  of  nature,  as 
all  ideas  are.  On  the  other  hand,  the  question  how  the 
concept  of  I-ness,  of  selfhood,  came  to  be  formed  is  much 
more  difficult.  The  answer  to  it  involves  an  elaborate  en- 
quiry into  the  conditions  of  primitive  life  and  the  growth  of 
language  (cf.  the  concept  of  'attribute').  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  social  form  of  life  and  (what  is  a  result 
of  this)  the  giving  of  proper  names  to  individuals  are  among 
the  principal  conditions  under  which  the  concept  took 
shape. 

'Self-consciousness'  in  the  popular  sense  of  nervousness, 
awkwardness,  bashfulness,  etc.,  is  one  of  the  instinctive  fears  (see 
§  75)-  A  good  account  of  it  is  given  by  Professor  Mosso,  in  the 
Introduction  of  his  work  on  Fear. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

1.  What  animals  do  you  know  to  be  capable  of  articulate 
speech  ?     Have  you  ever  observed  an  animal  signal  to  another 
by  sound?     What  did  the  signal  mean?     How  many  different 
signal-sounds  have  you  known  an  animal  to  employ? 

2.  Can  you  give  instances  of  'suggestion'  —  of  the  catching 
of  an  idea  or  emotion  by  a  number  of  individuals,  as  if  by  infec- 
tion—  in  human  society? 

3.  We  said  that  -'articulate  speech  has  far  outrun  its  primi- 
tive associate,  objective  gesture,  in  usefulness,"  and  gave  reasons. 
But  we  saw  in  §  61  that  the  sour  look  (subjective  gesture)  per- 
sists after  the  word-metaphor  has  disappeared  :  the  development 
has  proceeded  in  just  the  opposite  direction.     Why  should  this 
be? 

4.  It  is  said  that  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  are  derived  from 
hieroglyphics,  i.e.,  pictures  of  actual  objects  in  the  external  world, 
and   have  only  by  very  slow  degrees  become  sound-symbols. 
What  psychological  process  would  this  evolution  illustrate? 

5.  Can  animals  reason  ? 

6.  Suppose  that  you  ask  someone  a  question,  and  receive  an 
answer.     The  answer  will  have  the  form  of  a  judgment.     Can 
you  tell,  by  the  way  in  which  the  answer  is  given,  whether  it  is  a 
true  judgment  or  a  mere  hearsay  answer? — How,  in  your  own 


Questions  and  Exercises  229 

experience,  does  a  judgment  that  you  have  formed  by  effort  of 
attention  differ  from  a  statement  taken  '  on  trust '  ? 

7.  What  was  the  aggregate  idea  in  the  author's  mind  when 
he  set  to  work  to  write  the  first  Section  of  this  chapter? 

8.  What  method  would  you  use,  if  you  were  enquiring  into 
the  psychological  development  of  the  concepts  of  '  likeness '  and 
<  difference '  ? 

9.  Write  out  a  careful  introspective  description  of  (i)  the 
perception,  (2)  the  idea  and  (3)  the  abstract  idea  that  you  have 
of  yourself. 

10.  Whenever  the  abstract  self  of  §  93  (2)  comes  clearly  to 
consciousness,  the  idea  is  accompanied  by  a  special  group  of  sen- 
sations.    These  are  at  times  so  vivid  as  almost  to  change  the 
idea  of  self  to  a  perception  of  self.     What  are  they? 

1 1 .  Animals  may  be  actively  attentive,  actively  imaginative. 
Man  stands  above  them,  in  this  sphere,  because  he  thinks,  i.e., 
uses  words  to  symbolise  the  images  actively  attended  to.     Man, 
also,  has  passed  beyond  active  to  secondary  passive  attention ; 
the  animals  have  not.  —  What  biological  reasons  can  you  offer  for 
this  progress  from  active  imaging  to  active  symbolising,  and  from 
this  again  to  secondary  passive  attention  ? 

12.  Give  instances  of  change  of  meaning  in  words,  due  (i)  to 
objective  and  (2)  to  subjective  conditions. 

13.  What  is  the  psychological  difference  between  the ;  analytic ' 
and  the  l  synthetic '  judgment  ? 

14.  What  is  meant  by  the  '  unity  of  consciousness '  ?     Would 
'  centralisation '  be  a  better  term  than  '  unity '  ?    Why  ? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  chs.  xii.,  xiv.,  xv.,  xxii. 

Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  chs.  xi.,  xii. 

Titchener,  Outline,  §§81-85. 

Wundt,  Lectures,  pp.  250,  251 ;  Lects.  XXI.,  XXIV. 

Wundt,  Outlines,  §  17. 

Consult  also:  A.  H.  Sayce,  Introduction  to  the  Science  of 
Language,  1883.  W.  D.  Whitney,  Life  and  Growth  of  Lan- 
guage, 1880;  Language  and  the  Study  of  Language,  1891  ;  and 
pt.  i.  of  the  art.  Philology  in  the  Encyc.  Brit.,  gth  ed.  J.  Ward, 
art.  Psychology  in  the  Encyc.  Brit.,  Qth  ed. 


CHAPTER   XII 
SENTIMENT 

Sentiment  §  95.  Sentiment.  —  The  emotion  bears  precisely  the 

same  relation  to  the  sentiment  that  the  assimilation 
bears  to  the  judgment,  or  passive  to  active  attention. 
In  emotion  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  an  inci- 
dent or  situation,  which  overwhelms  us,  takes  posses- 
sion of  us,  —  in  other  words,  is  passively  attended  to. 
A  very  strong  and  very  complex  feeling  is  formed, 
and  rendered  still  stronger  and  still  more  complex  by 
the  organic  sensations  that  come  with  our  bodily  atti- 
tude towards  the  situation.  In  sentiment,  we  are  also 

Formation  brought  face  to  face  with  an  incident  or  situation ; 
but  it  is  of  a  kind  that  demands  active  attention, 
effortful  attention  now  to  this  part  and  now  to  that. 
We  take  possession  of  it,  so  to  speak,  in  place  of  its 
taking  possession  of  us.  Otherwise,  the  sentiment  re- 
sembles the  emotion.  A  strong  and  complex  feeling 
is  formed,  and  reinforced  by  organic  sensations.  The 
bodily  expression  of  sentiment  is  of  the  same  kind  as 
that  of  emotion. 

The  core  of  an  emotion,  then,  is  a  simultaneous  as- 
sociation of  ideas ;  the  core  of  a  sentiment  is  a  judg- 
ment or  an  active  imaging.  The  sentiment  stands 
upon  a  higher  level  of  mental  development.  There  is 
no  other  difference. 

We  find  the  same  difficulty  in  investigating  sentiment  that 
we  found  in  investigating  thought.  Just  as  there  are  many  ap- 

230 


§  96.    The  Forms  of  Sentiment  231 

parent  judgments  that  are  not  really  thought  at  all,  but  mere 
associations,  so  there  are  many  apparent  sentiments  that  are 
based  not  on  a  true  judgment-process  but  on  assimilation. 
And  again ;  just  as  active  attention  lapses  into  secondary 
passive  attention,  so  does  an  affective  state  that  begins  as 
sentiment  lapse  into  emotion.  Hence  in  describing  and 
identifying  the  sentiments  we  must  be  constantly  on  our 
guard  against  confusing  them  with  emotions  based  upon 
ready-made  judgments,  and  with  emotions  based  upon 
judgments  which  were  once  really  judgments,  but  have 
now  become  matters  of  habitual  association. 

For  instance  :  my  '  sentiment '  of  honour  may  never  have  Tradition 
cost  me  a  moment's  effort  of  attention.     A  definition  of  ^hai": 

their  effect 

honourable  conduct  has  come  down  to  me,  by  tradition,  and  upon  senti- 

I  accept  it  without  thought.     Conduct-situations  take  pos-   ment- 

session  of  me  :  I  face  them  by  an  emotion.     Or  again  :  my 

;  sentiment '  of  beauty  may  have  once  been  a  real  sentiment. 

I  may  have  laboriously  studied  art-canons,  and  studiously 

dissected  art-forms  by  active  attention.     Now,  twenty  years 

after  this  labour,  I  have  nothing  but  an  emotion  of  beauty ; 

I  am  instinctively  pleased  or  displeased  by  works  of  art, 

without  making  the  least  effort  to  analyse  them.  —  In  form, 

then,  I  have  a  moral  and  an  aesthetic  sentiment ;  in  reality, 

I  have  two  emotions. 

Here  as  everywhere  in  mental  life  the  lapse  of  active  into 
passive  may  be  very  good  or  very  bad  for  us.  If  we  pass  on 
to  new  activity,  as  soon  as  the  once-active  has  become  pas- 
sive, —  using  the  old  material  as  the  foundation  of  new  judg- 
ments, and  so  rising  higher  and  higher  in  knowledge  the 
more  of  this  passive  material  we  accumulate,  —  then  we  are 
turning  human  endowment  to  its  full  and  proper  account. 
If  we  are  content  with  the  passive,  resting  on  the  founda- 
tion built  for  us  by  our  ancestors,  we  are  no  better  than 
the  animals. 

§  96.  The  Forms  of  Sentiment.  —  There  are  four 
groups  or  classes  of  sentiments :  the  intellectual  or 


232 


Sentiment 


Intellectual, 


social, 


religious 


and  aesthetic 
sentiments. 


logical,  the  moral  or  social,  the   religious    and   the 
aesthetic. 

1 i )  The  situation  which  calls  forth  the  intellectual 
sentiments  is  made  up,  not  of  coexistent  objects  and 
concurrent   processes   of   the   outside .  world,  but  of 
thought-objects,  of  our  own  interpretative  processes. 
We  never  look  at  a  scientific  '  fact '  except  through 
the  eyes  of  a  theory.     It  is  the  theory,  the  thought- 
situation,  the  group  of  concepts,  that  calls  out  the 
intellectual  sentiment'.      And  the  central  judgment, 
round  which  the  affective  processes  gather,  is  the 
judgment  'This  is  true'  or  'This  is  untrue.' 

(2)  We  have  our  ideals  of  social  conduct,  as  we 
have  our  scientific  theories.    The  situation  that  evokes 
a  social  sentiment  is  a  behaviour-situation,  the  agree- 
ment or  disagreement  of  actual  conduct  with  our  ideal 
of  conduct.     A  man's  actions  as  member  of  a  family 
or  profession,  as  citizen  of  a  town  or  nation,  etc.,  give 
rise  to  the  judgment  'This  is  good'  or  'This  is  bad 
behaviour.'     This   judgment  forms  the  core  of  the 
social  sentiments. 

(3)  The  situation  in  the  religious  sentiment,  like 
those  in  the  intellectual  and  social  sentiments,  is  an 
ideal  situation,  made  up  of  thought-objects  and  inter- 
pretations.    The  central  judgment  differs  very  con- 
siderably  in   different   religions,    and    in    the    same 
religion    at    different    levels    of    development.      In 
general   terms   it   runs  '  This   is   right '  or  '  This  is 
wrong  in  the  eyes  of  God.' 

(4)  The  judgment  that  underlies  the  aesthetic  sen- 
timents is  'This  is  beautiful'  or  'ugly.'     The  situation 
which  calls  out  the  judgment  may  be  wholly  ideal 


§  g6.    The  Forms  of  Sentiment 


233 


(a  'pretty'  theory,  a  'neat'  argument),  or  may  be 
partly  perceptual  and  partly  ideal  (a  beautiful  land- 
scape, symphony,  etc.). 

Two  points  call  for  notice  here,  (i)  Notice  that  there 
is  an  obvious  reason  for  the  existence  of  the  first  three  kinds 
of  sentiment.  It  is  of  great  practical  importance  for  us  to 
know  whether  theories  are  true  or  untrue,  whether  our  con- 
duct will  be  approved  or  disapproved  by  our  friends  and 
acquaintances,  and  whether  we  are  living  our  whole  life 
rightly  or  wrongly.  If  our  theory  is  untrue,  if  it  has  out- 
run or  neglected  the  facts  of  the  world,  we  shall  not  be  able 
to  adjust  ourselves  to  these  facts;  our  inventions  will  not 
work,  our  crops  will  not  come  up,  etc.  If  we  act  badly, 
life  will  be  made  unpleasant  for  us,  by  imprisonment,  by 
withdrawal  of  friendship,  etc.  If  we  believe  in  a  divine 
retribution,  and  yet  direct  our  whole  life  amiss,  run  counter 
to  the  divine  will,  we  must  expect  to  suffer  for  it.  —  On  the 
other  hand,  there  seems  to  be  no  such  reason  for  the  exist- 
ence of  the  aesthetic  sentiments.  We  cannot  say,  offhand, 
what  their  practical  value  is ;  we  must  make  a  special  inves- 
tigation (§  100)  to  discover  it. 

(2)  Notice  that  the  sentiments,  like  the  feelings  and 
emotions,  fall  into  two  sets  :  a  pleasurable  and  an  unpleasur- 
able  set.  They  give  evidence  of  the  two  affective  qualities, 
pleasantness  and  unpleasantness,  but  not  of  any  others. 

Not  very  much  is  known  about  the  sentiments.  More 
work  has  been  done  upon  the  aesthetic  group  than  upon 
the  social,  intellectual  or  religious ;  but  even  there  our 
knowledge  is  uncertain. 

The  sentiments  are  sometimes  spoken  of  as  the  'higher1  feel- 
ings, in  contradistinction  to  the  emotions  and  the  feelings  proper, 
which  are  'lower'  feelings.  We  may  accept  the  words  'higher' 
and  'lower,'  if  we  interpret  them  to  mean  simply  'more  complex' 
and  '  less  complex.'  On  the  other  hand,  we  may  not  use  them 
in  the  sense  of  more  commendable'  and  'less  commendable'  : 
such  an  interpretation  takes  us  out  of  the  sphere  of  psychology 
into  that  of  ethics  (§  121). 


Practical 
importance 
of  senti- 
ments. 


Affective 
qualities  in 
sentiments. 


Higher  and 
lower  feel- 
ings. 


234 


Sentiment 


Intellectual 
sentiments : 
qualitative, 
temporal 


and  oscilla- 
tory. 


§  97.  The  Intellectual  Sentiments.  —  These  senti- 
ments show  very  clearly  how  nearly  related  senti- 
ment in  general  is  to  emotion.  We  have  qualitative 
and  temporal  sentiments,  as  we  had  qualitative  and 
temporal  emotions.  More  than  that,  we  have  a  dis- 
tinction of  objective  and  subjective  forms  among  the 
qualitative  sentiments,  just  as  we  had  among  the 
qualitative  emotions. 

At  the  same  time,  the  difference  between  senti- 
ment and  emotion  is  brought  out  with  equal  clear- 
ness. There  can  be  no  midivay  emotion :  an  emotion 
is  either  joy  or  sorrow,  either  hope  or  fear;  there  is 
no  new  emotion  that  is  something  between  the  two, 
but  is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  This  is  a  neces- 
sary consequence  of  the  fact  that  the  emotions  are 
formed  in  the  state  of  passive  attention ;  we  are  ab- 
sorbed, overwhelmed  by  the  situation.  But  suppose 
that  we  face  the  situation  by  a  judgment,  by  active 
attention.  It  is  clear  that,  as  the  various  incidents 
are  attended  to,  different  predicates  may  suggest 
themselves.  Here  is  a  theory :  is  it  true  or  untrue  ? 
Facts  a,  b,  c  speak  for  it ;  facts  x,  y,  z  against  it. 
The  attention  oscillates,  uncertainly,  between  the 
two  predicates ;  and  the  result  is  an  oscillatory  senti- 
ment. 

The  following  are  the  principal  qualitative  intellectual 
sentiments,  so  far  as  they  have  been  worked  out.  The 
names  of  the  pleasurable  sentiments  are  printed  in  capitals ; 
the  oscillatory  forms  in  italics. 

(1)  Objective  Sentiments : 

(a)  Objective  forms :  AGREEMENT,  obscurity,  contradiction. 

(b)  Subjective  forms :  EASE,  confusion,  difficulty. 

(2)  Subjective  Sentiments : 


§  97-    The  Intellectual  Sentiments  235 

(a)  Subjective  forms  :  BELIEF,  doubt,  disbelief. 

(b)  Objective  forms  :  TRUTH,  ambiguity,  falsehood. 

The  series  BELIEF,  doubt,  disbelief  is  perhaps  that  of  the 
greatest  practical  importance.  The  corresponding  moods  have 
all  received  names  :  ACQUIESCENCE,  indecision,  incredulity. 

Chief  among  the  temporal  intellectual  sentiments  is  that 
of  curiosity.  It  is  resolved  upon  qualitative  sentiments  as 

follows : 

Curiosity 

(fulfilled)  (deferred)  (unfulfilled) 

SUCCESSFUL  thought     Baffled  thought        Failure  of  thought 

Curiosity,  the  desire  to  know  for  the  sheer  sake  of  knowing, 
is  a  human  offshoot  of  the  instinct  of  inquisitiveness.  This 
latter  is  one  of  the  universal  animal  instincts ;  life  depends 
upon  having  a  full  knowledge  of  one's  surroundings. 

The  intellectual  attitude  has  grown  to  be  so  habitual  with 
civilised  man  that,  unless  we  have  a  thorough  grasp  of  the  way 
in  which  active  attention  passes  over  into  secondary  passive 
attention,  we  may  be  tempted  to  look  upon  it  as  something  primi- 
tive and  original,  rather  than  as  the  final  product  of  the  accumu- 
lated judgments  of  generations.  Take  the  case  of  belief,  e.g.  The  psy- 
What  could  be  simpler,  at  first  sight,  than  the  consciousness  chol°gy  °> 
which  finds  expression  in  the  phrase  "  I  feel  sure  "  ?  '  Feeling 
sure1  seems  as  natural  as  'feeling  cold.'  So  we  find  Hume  say- 
ing that  belief  is  nothing  else  than  the  having  of  a  clear  idea : 
when  we  have  a  clear  idea,  then  we  are  believing.  "  Belief,"  he 
declares,  "is  nothing  but  a  more  vivid,  lively,  forcible,  firm,  steady 
conception  of  an  object  than  the  imagination  alone  is  ever  able 
to  attain. "  And  Professor  James,  making  out  a  list  of  the  char- 
acteristics that  an  idea  must  have  if  it  is  to  be  believed,  puts 
down  in  the  first  place  "  coerciveness  over  attention,  or  the  mere 
power  to  possess  consciousness." 

Now  it  is  true  that  we,  to-day,  may  '  believe '  without  judging, 
and  '  feel  sure 1  without  having  the  sentiment  of  belief.  We 
approach  every  fact  with  centuries  of  belief  and  disbelief  upon 
us ;  we  fall,  instinctively,  into  a  believing  or  disbelieving  or 
doubting  attitude.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  time  when  there 
was  no  belief.  Animals  do  not  believe  or  disbelieve ;  they  have 


236  Sentiment 

not  advanced  far  enough  in  mental  development.  They  just 
accept  things  :  pleasantly,  if  the  things  are  familiar,  unpleasantly, 
if  they  are  unfamiliar.  Belief  arises  much  later,  and  falls  back 
into  the  '  feel-sure  '  attitude  much  later  still.  As  reflex  movement 
developes  out  of  impulsive  action,  so  does  the  reflex  feel-sure 
attitude  develope  out  of  numberless  true  beliefs,  the  sentiments 
of  our  dead  ancestors. 

Social  send-  §  98.  The  Social  and  the  Religious  Sentiments.  — The 
social  sentiments  also  fall  into  subjective  and  objective 
groups :  the  former  including  the  various  forms  of  self- 
approval  and  self-disapproval,  the  latter  indicating 
differences  of  attitude  towards  the  behaviour  of  others. 
They  are,  however,  exceedingly  difficult  of  classifica- 
tion, for  the  reason  that  they  are  exceedingly  liable 
to  lapse  into  emotions.  The  duties  that  every  member 
of  a  society  owes  to  its  other  members  are.  so  drilled 
into  us,  in  early  life,  that  later  on  we  take  social  situ- 
ations for  granted,  and  react  upon  them  by  passive 
attention.  It  would  be  impossible,  in  most  cases,  to 
find  a  difference,  e.g.,  between  guilt  (sentiment)  and 
fear  (emotion),  or  between  shame  (sentiment)  and 
chagrin  (emotion). 

We  may  distinguish  the  following  social  sentiments  : 

(1)  Subjective : 

(a)  subjective :    PRIDE,   modesty ;   objective :    POWER,  im- 

potence. 

(b)  subjective:  INNOCENCE,  guilt;  objective:   JUSTICE,  in- 

justice. 

(c)  subjective :     DUTIFULNESS.    undutifulness ;    objective : 

HONOUR,  dishonour. 

(d)  subjective :    VANITY,  shame ;    objective :    EMULATION, 

self-effacement. 

(2)  Objective : 

(a)  objective :   TRUST,  distrust ;  subjective :   SECURITY,  in- 
security. 


§  98.    Social  and  Religious  Sentiments      237 

(b)  objective  :  PATRONAGE,  indebtedness  ;  subjective,  FREE- 

DOM, restraint. 

(c)  objective :    MAGNANIMITY,  jealousy ;    subjective :    DIS- 

INTERESTED PLEASURE,  envy. 

(d)  objective:    FORGIVENESS,   revenge;   subjective:    COM- 

PASSION, hard-heartedness. 

There  are,  doubtless,  many  others.  But  the  very 
fact  that  sympathy  and  antipathy  are  emotions  — 
that  certain  social  situations  appeal  by  rights  only  to 
the  passive  attention  —  makes  it  difficult  to  draw  any 
hard  and  fast  line  of  division  between  social  senti- 
ment and  emotion. 

It  is  still  a  matter  of  debate  whether  the  close  con-  Religious 
nection  that  obtains  between  religion  and  morals  in 
modern  society  is  a  recent  development,  or  has 
persisted  from  the  earliest  forms  of  human  com- 
munity to  the  present  day.  In  all  probability,  how- 
ever, the  roots  of  religion  and  of  morals  are  planted 
in  different  soil,  and  the  growing  together  of  the  two 
is  a  matter  of  comparatively  recent  occurrence  (see 
§  120).  Theoretically,  therefore,  we  must  distinguish 
the  religious  from  the  moral  sentiments,  however 
closely  they  may  be  interwoven  in  our  everyday 
experience. 

The  following  are  some  of  the  religious  sentiments  : 
(i)  Objective. 


(2)  Subjective. 


Obj.  form. 
Awe 
Reverence 

Subj.  form. 
Humility 
Unworthiness 

Rebellion 

Disobedience 

Faith 

Exaltation. 

Subj.  form. 
Sinfulness 

Obj.  form. 
Remorse 

Spiritual  Pride 
Contrition 

Self-righteousness 
Repentance. 

238 


Sentiment 


Esthetic 
sentiments : 
beauty. 


Symmetry 
and  the 
golden  sec- 
tion. 


Sublimity, 
tragedy  and 
comedy. 


§  99.  The  ./Esthetic  Sentiments.  —  There  are  two 
pure  or  simple  aesthetic  sentiments,  those  of  beauty 
and  of  ugliness.  And  the  aesthetic  judgment  may 
be  passed  in  two  perceptual  fields,  those  of  sight  and 
of  hearing.  We  find  beauty  in  visual  form  (architec- 
ture, statuary,  natural  scenery),  in  colour  (painting, 
stage  grouping,  landscape),  and  in  visual  movement 
(dancing);  as  well  as  in  musical  form  (rhythm,  etc.), 
harmony  and  melody. 

A  good  deal  of  work  has  been  done  in  psychological 
laboratories  upon  what  is  called  'the  aesthetics  of  simple 
forms.'  Series  of  figures  are  prepared  (crosses,  ovals,  rec- 
tangles, etc.),  the  proportions  varying  slightly  from  figure 
to  figure,  and  the  subject  is  required  to  say  which  figure 
in  the  series  is  the  most  pleasing.  It  is  found  that  the 
proportions  chosen  are  (a)  those  of  i  :  i,  i.e.,  those  of  sym- 
metry, and  (b}  those  of  (approximately)  5  :  8,  those  of 
the  '  golden  section,'  as  it  is  termed.  Taste,  that  is,  is 
by  no  means  so  variable  as  is  commonly  supposed. 

The  precise  explanation  of  these  facts  is  uncertain  :  we 
are  not  even  quite  sure  whether  the  judgments  are  really 
aesthetic  judgments,  or  whether  they  depend  upon  such 
things  as  ease  of  eye-movement.  The  history  of  music, 
however,  gives  us  a  parallel.  The  harmony  that  was 
judged  to  be  most  beautiful  in  the  primitive  stage  of  har- 
monic music  was  that  of  the  octave.  Nowadays,  the 
octave  seems  thin  and  poor :  the  most  beautiful  har- 
mony to  us  is  that  of  the  major  third  (c-e).  It  may  be, 
then,  that  the  equal  division  of  symmetry  represents  the 
primitive  standard  of  beauty,  and  that  we  have  grown  to 
see  the  beauty  of  the  golden  section,  as  we  have  to  hear 
that  of  the  major  third. 

There  is  a  third  sentiment,  that  of  sublimity,  which 
is  partly  aesthetic  and  partly  intellectual,  social  or 


§  99-    The  ^Esthetic  Sentiments  239 

religious.  A  fourth,  that  of  tragedy,  is  part  aesthetic 
and  part  social;  and  a  fifth,  that  of  comedy,  is  part 
aesthetic  and  part  intellectual. 

When  we  say  that  a  scene  or  an  action  is  '  sublime,'  we 
usually  mean  that  our  sentiment  of  beauty  is  mixed  with 
the  religious  sentiment  of  awe.  Sometimes,  however,  it  is 
mingled  with  the  sentiment  of  truth  or  of  power.  In  no 
case  is  sublimity  a  pure  aesthetic  sentiment. 

The  tragic  sentiment  has  as  its  central  judgments  '  This 
is  beautiful '  and  '  This  is  unmerited.1  Tragedy  is  therefore 
a  mixture  of  beauty  and  injustice  (social  sentiment).  The 
sentiment  of  the  comic  or  the  ludicrous  appears  to  be  of 
the  oscillatory  character  (§  97).  We  have  the  judgments 
'  This  is  pretty  '  and  '  This  is  contradictory '  in  quick  suc- 
cession. 

Psychologists  have  always  found  it  easier  to  give  illustrations 
of  these  sentiments  than  to  explain  them.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
full  explanation  is  at  present  impossible.  We  must  wait  (i)  till 
the  experimental  method  has  finally  decided  for  us  how  many 
qualities  of  affection  there  are,  and  (2)  till  the  historical  develop- 
ment of  art,  in  all  its  branches,  has  been  more  thoroughly  worked 
out. 

In  the  meantime,  we  may  look  at  some  instances  of  aesthetic  Instances, 
sentiment  in  literature.  The  figures  of  Hamlet  and  of  Lear  in 
Shakespeare,  and  of  Antigone  in  Sophocles,  are  eminently  tragic. 
Even  at  moments  when  we  are  most  fully  appreciating  the  beauty 
of  the  presentation,  the  sentiment  of  injustice  crops  up :  why 
should  these  people  suffer  so  ?  we  ask  ;  what  have  thev  done  to 
deserve  their  fate?  Dogberry  and  Verges,  the  'two  foolish  offi- 
cers '  in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  are  unsurpassably  comic. 
There  is  an  aesthetic  fitness  or  Tightness  about  what  they  say ; 
but  when  we  consider  the  sense,  all  is  contradiction.  —  we  have 
what  Professor  Sully  calls  a  "  delicious  incongruity  of  ideas." 
To  take  one  case  : 

"Dogb.  (to  the  Watch).      You  are  to  bid  any  man  stand,  in 

the  prince's  name 
Watch.     How,  if  a1  will  not  stand? 
Dogb.     Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go." 


240 


Sentiment 


For  instances  of  the  sentiment  of  sublimity,  the  reader  must 
search  his  own  experience.  The  author  has  felt  it  most  keenly, 
in  its  form  of  awesome  beauty,  when  hearing  Beethoven's  Ninth 
Symphony  or  Wagner's  Gotterda m merung ;  when  standing  on 
a  mountain-top,  watching  a  thunder-storm  pass  beneath  him ; 
when  at  sea,  on  a  calm  starlight  night ;  when  passing  through 
a  deeply  cleft  ravine,  etc.  There  is  a  solemnity  pervading  the 
beauty  in  all  such  experiences.  —  An  instance  of  sublimity,  in  the 
sense  of  mingled  truth  and  beauty,  which  will  appeal  to  all  who 
have  the  artistic  temper,  is  afforded  by  the  Venus  of  Milo.  The 
figure  is  so  perfectly  beautiful  that  we  should  feel  awed  by  it, 
were  there  not  with  all  the  stateliness  a  womanly  touch,  a 
winningness,  that  puts  us  at  our  ease  in  its  presence.  The 
Dorian  Girl  (the  '  Diana  of  Gabii ')  is  beautiful,  graceful ;  but  we 
do  not  feel  her  beauty  in  the  same  way  as  we  do  that  of  the 
Venus.  The  same  sentiment  arises  when  one  stands  before 
a  Velasquez.  "  Everything  Velasquez  does,"  says  Mr.  Ruskin, 
"  may  be  taken  as  absolutely  right  by  the  student."  We  have 
perfect  beauty,  then,  as  in  the  Milo ;  and,  as  with  her  too,  it 
is  not  awe.  but  rather  a  friendliness  towards  the  artist,  confi- 
dence in  his  utter  truthfulness,  that  suggests  itself  to  the  spec- 
tator. —  Lastly,  we  experience  the  sublimity  that  is  compounded 
of  the  sentiments  of  power  and  beauty  when  we  look  down  from 
a  mountain-top  upon  a  landscape  that  shows  the  marks  of  man's 
dominion  over  nature,  or  when  we  ride  a  stormy  sea  in  a  stout 
ship,  or  when  we  read  of  heroic  deeds  and  feel  a  personal  eleva- 
tion that  reflects  their  heroism. 


Is  aesthetics 
of  practical 
value? 


§  100.  The  Practical  Utility  of  ./Esthetics. — At  first 
sight,  nothing  appears  to  be  more  useless,  a  greater 
mental  superfluity,  than  the  aesthetic  sentiment. 
People  of  aesthetic  temperament  enjoy  certain  things 
more  than  others  do ;  but  they  suffer  more,  also,  and 
their  enjoyment  does  not  seem  to  bring  them  any 
practical  advantage.  What  is  it,  then,  that  has  kept 
the  aesthetic  sentiment  alive  ?  Why  has  it  not  simply 
died  out,  —  disappearing  as,  e.g.,  the  power  to  move 
the  ears  has  disappeared  ? 


§  ioo.    Practical  Utility  of  ^Esthetics        241 

Perhaps  we  should  not  assume  that  the  sentiment 
is  useless.  Movement  of  the  ears  was  useful  once : 
we  see  that  it  is  so  still  to  some  animals.  ./Esthetics 
too,  then,  may  have  been  useful  once.  And  indeed, 
the  very  fact  that  it  has  not  died  out,  while  ear- 
movement  has,  should  make  us  hesitate  to  take  its 
uselessness  as  a  matter  of  course.  Let  us  look  at 
its  development  historically. 

In  primitive  times,  the  body  was  decorated  with  Primitive  art. 
a  view  to  attracting  a  mate.  Just  as  the  male  bird 
comes  out  in  gorgeous  plumage  in  the  pairing  sea- 
son, so  the  savage  decked  himself  with  ochre  and 
shells  and  feathers  to  make  his  person  attractive. 
Then,  by  slow  degrees,  decoration  travelled  from 
person  to  surroundings :  first,  from  the  body  to  the 
clothes,  and  then  again  from  clothes  to  house.  But 
as  the  primitive  house  is  a  rude  structure,  and  its 
owner  poor,  not  much  can  be  done  by  way  of  indi- 
vidual house-adornment ;  and  so  we  find  the  members 
of  a  tribe  clubbing  together,  so  to  speak,  to  decorate 
the  common  house,  the  temple.  /Esthetics  now  enters 
into  the  service  of  religion. 

Again :  as  the  tribes  settled  down  to  agricultural  The  an  of 
pursuits,  man  became  a  labourer ;  systematic  and  regu- 
lar work  grew  to  be  a  necessity.  But  work  means 
play ;  if  we  labour,  we  must  have  recreation.  What 
games,  though,  shall  grown-up  people  play  ?  They 
have  lost  their  pleasure  in  children's  games.  ^Es- 
thetics comes  to  the  rescue :  art  is  the  play,  the 
proper  recreation,  of  grown-up  workers.  We  speak, 
and  rightly  speak,  of  the  '  plays  '  of  Shakespeare, 
and  of  '  playing  '  the  violin.  ^Esthetics  has  now  lost 


242  Sentiment 

its  religious  meaning,  and  has  been  turned  to  secular 
purposes,  —  purposes  of  the  very  highest  utility. 

In  no  less  than  three  ways,  then,  has  the  aesthetic 
sentiment  proved  itself  of  practical  importance.  It 
has  been  useful  in  courtship ;  it  has  been  useful  as 
enhancing  the  impressiveness  of  religious  ceremo- 
nies ;  it  is  still  eminently  useful  as  the  play  of  adults. 

^Esthetics  It  may  seem  strange  that  a  form  of  judgment,  i.e.,  of 

as  play.  effortful  attention,  should  serve  as  recreation.      ^Esthetics 

would  appear  to  be  rather  a  kind  of  work  than  of  play.  But 
we  must  remember  (i)  that  primitive  aesthetic  judgments 
were  inseparably  connected  with  social  and  religious  judg- 
ments, and  that  these  latter  judgments  had  to  be  passed ; 
men  were  forced  to  take  thought  of  their  neighbours  and  to 
propitiate  their  gods.  Hence  the  aesthetic  attitude  became 
a  natural  one  at  a  very  early  stage  of  human  development, 
and  is  a  traditional  '  of  course  '  attitude  with  ourselves. 
And  (2)  we  know  that  that  play  is  most  effectual,  most 
recreative,  which  consists  in  a  less  serious  copy  of  work. 
By  repeating  our  work  in  lighter  form,  we  get  the  maximum 
of  refreshment  with  the  minimum  of  mental  wrench.  Hence 
for  the  intellectual  man,  the  man  whose  work  is  the  work  of 
judging,  aesthetics,  judging  in  play,  is  the  very  best  sort  of 
holiday-taking. 

Moreover,  the  aesthetic  sentiment,  like  all  the  sentiments, 
is  liable  to  lapse  into  emotion,  and  the  aesthetic  judgment 
to  lapse  into  a  simultaneous  association  of  ideas.  We  can 
enjoy  now  as  the  result  of  past  judgments  :  the  hearing  of 
Tannhduser,  the  sight  of  a  Velasquez  or  of  the  Venus  of 
Milo,  may  give  us  a  perfectly  effortless  pleasure.  Indeed, 
art  owes  a  good  deal  of  its  vogue  in  modern  times  to 
the  fact  that  we  have,  up  to  a  certain  extent,  an  inherited 
capacity  for  enjoying  it  without  judging  it  at  all.  A  sym- 
phony can  be  enjoyed  only  after  judgment  passed ;  but  a 
waltz  takes  possession  of  us  at  once.  Paderewski's  playing 


Questions  and  Exercises  243 

can  be  appreciated  only  by  a  few :  but  thousands  will  pay 
large  prices  to  '  see  his  fingers  move,'  just  as  they  will  to 
see  trapeze-work  at  a  circus.  All  this,  of  course,  helps  to 
keep  art  alive,  —  gives  it  a  real  usefulness,  if  not  that  higher 
usefulness  which  it  has  for  those  who  use  it  aright. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

1 i )  Can  you  name  any  moods  that  correspond  to  the  social 
sentiments  mentioned  in  §  98?     Describe  a  typical  situation  in 
which  each  of  the  sentiments  of  the  list  might  arise. 

(2)  Give  six  instances  of  ugliness  —  three  of  ugly  sights  and 
three  of  ugly  sounds  —  from  your  usual  surroundings.     Why  are 
they  ugly? 

(3)  Have  some  argumentative  passage  (§  100  of  this  book, 
e.g.)  read  aloud  to  you.     Notice  how  the  intellectual  sentiments 
arise  and  disappear,  as  the  argument  proceeds.     Write  out  the 
names  of  the  sentiments  that  you  feel,  and  mark  the  sentences 
which  call  them  forth. 

(4)  Compare  the  list  of  intellectual  sentiments  with  the  list  of 
emotions  given  in  §§  63  and  64.      Pick  out  the  emotion  into 
which  each  of  the  sentiments  might  pass,  if  active  attention 
lapsed  into  passive. 

(5)  Draw  two  series  of  crosses,  varying  (i)  the  length  of  the 
cross-bar,  and  (2)  its  position  upon  the  stem  of  the  cross.     Lay 
the  series  in  turn  before  a  class,  and  let  each  member  pick  out 
the  most  pleasing  cross.     See  how  closely  the  chosen  proportions 
approach  those  of  the  golden  section  or  of  symmetry.  —  Are  there 
any  objects  in  constant  use  whose  proportions  seem  to  have  been 
arbitrarily  decided,  but  which  when  measured  give  the  proportion 
5:8? 

(6)  Can  you  recall  any  characters,  in  history  or  fiction,  who 
might  stand  as  embodiments  of  some  social  or  religious  senti- 
ment? 

(7)  Why  does  a  man  cough,  when  embarrassed ;   and  rub  his 
eyes,  pass  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  or  scratch  his  head,  when 
perplexed?    Name  some  of  the  other  characteristic  expressions 
of  sentiment. 

(8)  How  does  '  curiosity '  differ  from  '  inquisitiveness '? 


244  Sentiment 

(9)  It  is  said  above  that  aesthetics  'has  been'  useful  in  court 
ship  and  religion.  Is  it  still  useful  in  either?  If  so,  how  does  its 
present  differ  from  its  primitive  usefulness  ? 

(10)  Matthew  Arnold  defined  poetry  as  "criticism  of  life." 
Does  this  definition  suggest  any  further  field  of  usefulness  for 
aesthetics?  May  aesthetics  be  properly  extended  to  cover  it? 

(u)  If  my  artistic  sentiments  have  once  become  emotions, 
how  am  I  to  rise  to  new  activity,  —  to  move  forward  to  new  senti- 
ments on  the  basis  of  my  emotion  material? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  pp.  160-163,  384,  385. 

G.  Santayana,  The  Sense  of  Beauty,  1896. 

Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  II.,  ch.  xvi. 

Titchener,  Outline,  §§  86-91. 

Wundt,  Ethics,  vol.  I.,  1897,  ch.  iii. 

Wundt,  Lectures,  pp.  378-380. 

Wundt,  Outlines,  pp.  163,  189,  217,  241,  265. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  COMPLEX  FORMS  OF  ACTION 

§  101 .   The  Development  of  Action  beyond  the  Impulse.   Action  with 
—  The  most  complicated  action  that  we  discussed  in  active  atten. 
Chapter  IX.  was  the  full-formed  impulsive  action, —  tion- 
an  action  whose  motive,  given  in  the  state  of  passive 
attention,  contained  the  idea  of  own  movement,  the 
perception  or  idea  of  the  object  moved  to  or  from, 
and  the  idea  of  the  result  of  movement.     We  have 
now  to  see  what  actions  are  performed  in  the  states 
of  active  and  of  secondary  passive  attention. 

Active  attention  occurs  when  there  are  at  one  and 
the  same  time  two  or  more  claimants  for  the  foremost 
place  in  consciousness  (§  32).  One  idea  fits  in  with 
one  aspect  of  the  mental  constitution  or  disposition 
of  the  moment,  and  another  with  another ;  one  exci- 
tation runs  into  certain  open  tendency-channels,  and 
another  into  others.  There  is  thus  a  conflict  of  exci- 
tations in  the  cortex-,  and  a  conflict  of  ideas  in  con- 
sciousness. We  have  a  see-saw  of  attention  for  a 
while,  and  then,  at  last,  some  one  of  the  contestants 
wins  the  day. 

The  conflicting  processes  need  not  be  ideas :  they  Selective 
may  be  perceptions  or  assimilations  or  groups  of 
ideas  of  any  degree  of  complexity.  Suppose,  now, 
that  we  have  at  the  same  time  two  rival  impulses, 
two  impulses  which  cannot  both  be  acted  out  because 
their  movements  are  antagonistic.  There  will  be  a 

245 


246 


The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 


Volitional 
action. 


Secondary 

psychomotor 

action. 


Automatic 
movement. 


The  conflict 
of  impulses. 


conflict,  an  effortful  see-saw  of  attention,  until  the 
one  or  the  other  wins.  Action  which  is  motived  in 
this  way  is  termed  selective  action. 

Suppose,  again,  that  the  claimants  for  the  attention 
are  one  of  them  an  impulse  and  one  of  them  an  idea 
(or  group  of  ideas)  that  has  never  formed  part  of  a 
motive,  that  does  not  '  prompt  to  action '  at  all.  In 
this  case,  too,  there  may  be  a  conflict :  we  may  move, 
or  we  may  remain  inactive  and  attend  to  the  second 
claimant.  If  we  move,  we  perform  what  is  called  a 
volitional  action. 

Selective  and  volitional  actions  are  the  highest, 
the  most  complex,  that  we  know ;  they  are  the  only 
forms  that  appear  in  the  state  of  active  attention. 
Both  alike  are  simplified  by  the  lapse  of  active  into 
secondary  passive  attention.  And  the  simplifica- 
tion that  they  undergo  is  merely  a  repetition  of  the 
simplification  of  the  impulse  itself.  We  have,  first, 
the  change  into  psyckomotor  action,  and  then  a  final 
descent  into  secondary  reflex  or  (as  it  is  better 
named)  automatic  movement. 

It  is  with  these  four  types  that  we  are  concerned, 
therefore,  in  the  present  Chapter. 

§  1 02.  Selective  Action.  —  Selective  action  has  its 
root  in  alternating  impulsive  actions.  When  a  young 
child  suddenly  comes  face  to  face  with  a  strange  dog, 
the  impulse  towards  (cf.  the  instinct  of  inquisitive- 
ness)  and  the  impulse  away  from  (cf.  the  instinctive 
fear  of  the  unknown)  are  realised  in  quick  succession. 
The  child  goes  up  to  the  dog,  runs  back  to  its  father, 
approaches  the  dog  again,  and  so  on.  Later  in  life, 


§  IO2.    Selective  Action  247 

when  active  attention  has  become  a  permanent  feature 
of  mental  constitution,  there  is  but  one  movement : 
the  conflict  of  impulses  is  outwardly  manifested  only 
in  the  slowness  with  which  movement  follows  upon 
the  presentation  of  the  motive,  and  (perhaps)  in  a 
puzzled  and  perplexed  expression  of  face.  In  other 
words,  we  have  in  the  conduct  of  adults  selective 
action,  and  not  alternate  impulsive  actions. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  alternation  of  impulsive  actions  takes 
place  even  in  adult  life.  Thus  it  has  happened  to  the  author,  in 
face  of  the  two  impulses  (i)  to  shut  a  door  on  the  right  hand 
and  (2)  to  seat  himself  at  his  typewriter-table  on  the  left,  actually 
to  begin  a  right-hand  movement  towards  the  door,  and  then  all 
at  once  to  slue  round  to  the  typewriter,  without  having  closed  it. 
—  In  his  story  of  "  Dite  Deuchars  "  Mr.  Barrie  has  drawn  a  vivid 
picture  of  conduct  permanently  arrested  at  this  half-way  house 
between  impulsive  and  selective  action. 

The  impulses  whose  conflict  ends  in  selective  Complex 
action  may,  however,  be  very  much  more  complex 
than  the  impulses  which  we  have  described  hitherto. 
We  have  assumed  that  the  'object'  of  the  impulse 
is  quite  simple ;  something  that  can  be  grasped  by 
a  perception  or  idea  or  assimilation.  Suppose  that 
the  object  is  a  situation,  of  the  kind  that  gives  rise  to 
emotion, — that  the  impulse  consists  of  idea  of  own 
movement,  of  ideas  of  a  situation  (idea  of  object), 
and  of  idea  of  result  of  movement :  the  consciousness 
that  is  made  up  of  rival  impulses  will  then  be  a  very 
complicated  affair.  And  again  :  suppose  that  the 
'object '  of  the  impulse  is  a  situation  of  the  kind  that 
gives  rise  not  to  an  emotion,  but  to  a  sentiment,  a 
situation  that  has  to  be  dissected  by  active  attention 
before  it  can  be  grasped  as  a  whole :  consciousness 


248  The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 

The  most       becomes  still   more  complicated.      We  are  actively 

typeP0f  seiec-  attentive  to  a  mass  of   ideas,   parts  of   which  (the 

tive  action,      situations)  themselves    demand    active   attention    if 

they  are  to  be  adequately  met.      In  such   a   case, 

selective  action  is  a  most   momentous  matter  ;    the 

drain  upon  the  organism's  strength  is  very  great,  and 

the  choice  exceedingly  fatiguing.     This  is  selective 

action  at  its  highest  point  of   development.      It  is 

rarely  performed. 

The  reader  will  remember  what  we  said  in  §  90  of  the 
rarity  of  judgment,  and  of  the  facility  with  which  we  all  of 
us  take  judgments  '  on  trust '  from  those  who  have  already 
done  the  work  of  thinking.  Remembering  this,  he.  will 
understand  how  tangled  a  set  of  processes  the  various  forms 
of  selective  action  are,  and  how  difficult  it  is,  in  any  given 
instance,  to  say  whether  active  attention  has  been  involved 
or  not.  Thus  many  choices  in  the  sphere  of  moral  conduct, 
which  wear  the  look  of  extremely  complex  selective  actions, 
may  have  resulted  in  actual  fact  from  the  conflict  of  simple 
impulses.  Take  th'  case  of  a  rivalry  of  duties ;  of  impulses, 
/.<?.,  whose  object?  are  duty-performances.  We  do  not  know 
what  to  do ;  but  still  we  choose,  very  often,  without  thought. 
"  I  shall  feel  better  if  I  do  f/iat,"  we  say,  and  do  it  almost 
T>e  selective  offhand.  Now  if  we  had  acted  selectively,  as  we  appear  to 
action  of  nave  done,  we  should  (i)  have  analysed  the  situation  that 
called  for  the  doing  of  the  one  duty,  (2)  have  dissected  that 
which  demanded  the  doing  of  the  second  duty  and  (3)  have 
weighed  the  two  resulting  judgment-impulses  against  each 
other,  —  all  in  the  state  of  active  attention. 

The  simplification,  as  always,  has  its  good  side.  There 
are  times  when  we  must  strain  our  active  attention  to  the 
utmost ;  and  the  more  lightly  we  take  the  clash  of  situations 
in  lesser  matters,  the  more  energy  we  have  left  for  the  great 
occasions.  If  we  refused  to  accept  our  neighbours'  experi- 
ence, and  insisted  on  judging  for  ourselves,  we  should  proba- 


§  103.    Volitional  Action  249 

bly  be  too  tired  to  act  efficiently  when  the  call  came  for 
really  selective  action.  It  is  also  true,  in  many  cases,  that 
the  '  right '  action  is  the  action  which  realises  the  impulse 
that  is  strongest  at  the  moment  when  the  alternatives  are 
suggested,  and  which  is  therefore,  so  to  say,  an  instinctive 
action.  If  we  scrupulously  weigh  consequences,  and  con- 
sider all  the  pros  and  cons,  we  are  liable  to  lose  our  moral 
balance,  to  cut  ourselves  adrift  from  the  moral  anchorage  of 
social  tradition  and  public  opinion,  and  so  to  act  against  our 
'  better  nature.' 

Any  biography  that  goes  at  all  minutely  into  details  furnishes 
examples  of  selective  action.  Thus  when  Napoleon  was  free  to 
turn  his  thoughts  to  England,  after  the  treaty  of  Schbnbrunn 
(1809),  he  found  two  possibilities  of  action:  he  might  himself 
take  in  hand  the  conduct  of  the  war  in  Spain,  or  he  might  devote 
himself  to  heightening  the  rigour  of  th'e  blockade  in  the  north 
and  northwest.  He  chose  the  latter  course.  Again  :  when  war 
with  Russia  became  inevitable  ( 1 8 1 1 ),  he  deliberated  whether  to  re- 
store Poland  and  begin  a  campaign  upon  the  Lithuanian  frontier, 
or  to  strike  a  sudden  and  decisive  blow  by  invasion  with  an  over- 
whelming force.  The  latter  course  was  chosen. — A  carefully  played 
game  of  chess  will  afford  several  such  instances  on  a  small  scale. 

§   103.    Volitional  Action. — Volitional  differs  from  The  conflict 
selective  action  merely  in  the  fact  that  the  conflict  ancndeaT 
is  carried  on,  not  between  impulse  and  impulse,  but 
between  an  impulse  and  an  idea  (or  group  of  ideas) 
which  does  not  contain  any  inducement  to  action. 
I  am  reading  a  novel,  when  the  thought  strikes  me 
that  I  ought  to  be  working :  the  impulse  to  rise  from 
my  chair  and  set  about  writing  comes  into  conflict 
with  the  passive  interest  of  the  story.     My  rising,  if 
it  takes  place,  is  a  volitional  action. 

Volitional  action  is  subject  to  the  same  degeneration  that   instance 

we  have  just  traced  out  in  the  case  of  selective  action.   ofvolltional 

action. 
Suppose,  e.g.,  —  to  quote  a  much-discussed  instance,  —  that 

a  well-to-do  citizen,  a  man  holding  municipal  office,  the 


250  The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 

father  of  a  family,  the  administrator  of  important  trusts,  is 
walking  by  a  river-side,  and  sees  a  child  fall  from  a  wharf 
into  the  water.  He  has  the  impulse  to  jump  in  after  it. 
On  the  other  side  are  ranged  the  ideas  of  the  seriousness 
of  a  wetting  and  the  certainty  of  influenza  to  follow,  the 
thought  that  his  life  is  worth  something  to  the  community 
while  the  child  has  not  yet  proved  itself  honest  or  capable, 
the  remembrance  of  duties  owed  to  wife  and  children,  etc. 
If  all  these  considerations  are  reviewed,  it  is  highly  probable 
that  no  action  will  follow.  In  most  cases,  however,  the 
jump  is  taken,  and  taken  impulsively.  Society  praises  the 
bravery  of  the  act.  and  accounts  it  as  volitional :  and, 
indeed,  it  wears  all  the  appearance  of  a  volitional  action. 
Nevertheless,  there  was  no  conflict,  or  at  most  a  very  weak 
one.  Nature  has  seen,  to  it  that  the  men  who  inspire  trust 
are  the  men  who  perform  actions  of  this  sort '  instinctively ' ; 
for  nature  looks  to  the  good  of  the  whole  ;  and  the  keeping 
alive  by  example  of  the  spirit  of  self-sacrificing  courage  is 
more  for  the  good  of  the  whole  than  the  loss  of  a  single 
member  of  society,  however  valuable,  is  for  its  harm. 

So  it  may  be  in  the  simpler  case  given  above.  I  may 
rise  and  begin  to  write  without  realising  that  the  struggle 
has  fairly  begun.  The  novel  was  less  interesting  than  usual 
for  an  instant ;  my  attention  flagged,  and  was  seized  by  the 
idea  of  working ;  and  here  I  am,  with  my  pen  travelling 
over  the  paper.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  many  volitional 
acts,  so  called,  are  really  impulsive.  Nevertheless,  there 
are  times,  as  every  reader  must  be  able  to  assert  from  his 
own  experience,  when  true  volitional  action  is  required  of 
each  one  of  us. 

We  have  a  typical  instance  of  volitional  action  in  the  crossing 
of  the  Rubicon,  i.e.,  the  invasion  of  Italy,  by  Julius  Caesar 
(B.C.  49).  The  alternative  to  this  step  was  the  passive  resig- 
nation of  the  two  Gauls  and  the  dismissal  of  the  army. 

Shakespeare  pictures  volitional  action,  e.g.,  in  Juliet's  drinking 
of  the  potion  prepared  by  Friar  Laurence  (Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act 
iv.,  sc.  3).  Juliet  deliberates: 


§  104.    Choice  and -Resolve  251 

"What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all?  .  .  . 

What  if  it  be  a  poison  ?  .  .  . 

How  if,  when  1  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 

I  wake  before  the  time  ?  .  .  . " 

and  so  on ;  but  finally  drinks.  —  Cf.  Desdemona's  resolve  to 
follow  her  husband  rather  than  stay  with  her  father  (Othello,  Act 
i.,  sc.  3). 

§  104.  Choice  and  Resolve.  —  Selective  and  voli- 
tional action  are  characterised,  we  said,  by  the  slow- 
ness with  which  movement  follows  the  formation  of  a 
motive.  The  period  of  inaction  which  intervenes  be- 
tween thought  of  action  and  action  itself  has  received 
different  names,  according  as  the  conflict  of  ideas 
goes  on  in  the  state  of  active  or  in  that  of  passive 
attention.  If  we  have  a  merely  passive  alternation  of 
motives  (as  in  the  case  of  the  child  in  presence  of  the 
dog ;  or  in  cases  where  the  rival  impulses  are  more 
complicated,  but  still  do  not  require  to  be  actively 
dissected,  —  where  the  situations  that  stand  for  the 
object-ideas  are  such  as  to  call  forth  emotions  only, 
not  an  oscillatory  sentiment),  we  speak  of  a  period  of 
hesitation.  If  we  have  an  active  weighing  of  motives,  Hesitation, 
as  happens  when  the  situations  of  the  impulses  are 
too  complex  to  be  passively  apprehended,  we  speak 
of  a  period  of  deliberation.  Hesitation  is  accompanied  Deliberation 
by  the  mood  of  uneasiness  or  depression  or  dissatis- 
faction ;  perhaps  even  by  the  emotion  of  melancholy 
or  care.  Deliberation  is  attended  by  the  sentiment 
of  obscurity,  confusion,  doubt,  etc. 

Deliberation,  then,  is  the  series  of  judgments  or  Choice  and 
of  active  imagings  that  precedes  selective  and  voli- 
tional action.     But  before  movement  can  take  place, 
deliberation  must  have  been  replaced  by  something 


252 


The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 


else ;  conflict  must  have  been  changed  into  victory 
for  the  one  side  and  defeat  for  the  other.  The  emer- 
gence of  the  victorious  judgment  is  termed  choice  in 
the  case  of  selective  and  resolve  or  decision  in  the 
case  of  volitional  action. 


Instance  of 
choice  with 
active  atten- 
tion. 


The  appearance  of  choice  or  resolve,  since  it  means  that 
the  conflict  is  over,  means  that  active  has  lapsed  into  sec- 
ondary passive  attention.  But  this  does  not  necessarily 
mean  that  thought  has  ceased.  Since  the  victorious  judg- 
ment is  a  judgment,  we  may  still  be  actively  thinking,  after 
we  have  chosen  or  decided.  Hence  the  end  of  deliberation 
may  be  accompanied  by  a  sentiment  (belief,  ease,  justice, 
compassion,  etc.).  More  often,  however,  the  judgment  has 
become  so  familiar  that  active  thought  is  not  required  :  we 
have  the  emotion  of  relief  or  disappointment.  —  Further,  to 
make  the  complication  still  worse,  the  fact  of  choice  or 
resolve  may  itself  become  the  topic  of  judgment :  we  may 
be  proud,  ashamed,  etc.,  just  because  we  have  chosen  or 
decided. 

An  instance  may  help  to  make  the  argument  clear.  Sup- 
pose that,  after  doubting  whether  to  include  an  account  of 
certain  facts  in  this  book  or  to  leave  it  out,  I  decide  to 
include  it.  My  writing  it  down  is  a  volitional  action.  What 
are  the  processes  that  constitute  its  mental  antecedents  ? 

1 i )  I  have  two  conflicting  situations  before  me  :  the  put-in 
and  the  leave-out  situations.     Both  are  thought-situations, 
and  each  requires  active  attention ;  there  are  many  argu- 
ments on  either  side. 

(2)  I  deliberate :  that  is,  I  attend  actively  to  both  situ- 
ations, with   the  sentiment  of  doubt.      This  means  much 
effort. 

(3)  I  decide  :  the  effort  of  deliberation  ceases,  and  the 
put-in  judgment  wins.     At   this   point    I   may   experience 
simply  the  emotion  of  relief ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  may 
have  the  sentiment  of  agreement  or  truth  that  belongs  to 


§  1 04.    Choice  and  Resolve  253 

the  judgment  as  a  judgment.  If  the  put-in  judgment  was 
thoroughly  familiar  when  I  began  to  deliberate,  the  senti- 
ment will  not  arise  :  if  it  was  not,  the  situation  may  demand 
further  thought. 

(4)  The  process  may  stop  here,  or  may  continue.  Let 
us  suppose  that  it  continues.  I  may  think  that  it  was  fool- 
ish of  me  to  spend  so  much  time  and  trouble  in  deliberating, 
or  that  my  deliberation  showed  that  I  was  underestimating 
the  reader's  capacity ;  in  that  case  I  am  ashamed.  Or  I 
may  think  that  I  need  not  have  worried,  for  I  have  thought 
out  the  subject  so  completely,  and  made  it  fit  in  so  well  with 
what  comes  before  and  after  it,  that  every  one  can  understand 
it :  in  that  case  I  have  the  sentiment  of  pride  or  of  aesthetic 
fitness. 

Not  till  all  these  processes  have  run  their  course  does  the 
actual  writing  begin.  Four  times  over  I  have  had  to  think : 
first,  about  each  of  the  situations  •,  secondly,  about  both  of 
them  together ;  thirdly,  about  the  situation  decided  upon ; 
and  fourthly,  about  my  own  decision.  Notice  that  all  these 
processes  may  equally  well  be  present  when  there  is  no  action 
whatever.  If,  e.g.,  I  decide  to  leave  out  the  account,  (i), 
(2)  and  (3)  will  still  necessarily  be  there,  and  (4)  may 
occur  also. 

A  very  common  form  of  choice  is  that  pictured  by  Tennyson  in   The  choice 
"  CEnone."     Paris  is  to  give  the  golden  apple  to  the  fairest  of  the   °|  e 
three  chief  goddesses.     Her&  comes  first,  making  "proffer  of 
royal  power."     Paris,  moved  by  the  single  impulse, 

"  held  the  costly  fruit 

Out  at  arm's  length,  so  much  the  thought  of  power 
Flatter'd  his  spirit"; 

but,  before  the  action  was  performed,  Pallas  had  intervened  with 
the  promise  of  wisdom.  There  is  a  conflict  of  impulses :  . 

"she  ceased, 
And  Paris  pondered." 

His  deliberation  is  interrupted  by  Aphrodite's  offer  of 
"  The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece"; 


254 


The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 


Will. 


The  psy- 
chological 
arguments 
for  freedom 


and  this  motive,  forming  just  as  the  other  two  have  been  weak- 
ened by  mutual  struggle,  carries  the  day. 

The  taking  of  a  resolve  is  portrayed  in  the  opening  scenes  of 
Macbeth.  Beginning  in  the  "  suggestion  whose  horrid  image 
doth  unfix  the  hair,"  it  culminates  in  the  words : 

"  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 
Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat." 

§  105.  The  Freedom  of  the  Will. — The  psychology 
of  attention  and  action  is  often  termed  the  psychology 
of  the  Will :  just  as  that  of  affection,  feeling,  emotion 
and  sentiment  is  termed  the  psychology  of  Feeling,  and 
that  of  sensation,  perception,  idea,  association  and 
thought  the  psychology  of  Intellect.  Now  one  of  the 
most  debated  questions  in  philosophy  is  that  of 
the  'freedom  of  the  will.'  It  is  evident  that  we  can- 
not answer  a  philosophical  question  by  appeal  to  our 
own  single  science  :  answers  must  be  obtained  from 
ethics  and  logic  and  the  other  philosophical  sciences, 
as  well  as  from  psychology,  and  the  whole  list  of 
answers  compared  and  summed  up.  But  as  there  is  a 
psychology  of  will,  as  psychology  is  one  of  the  sciences 
appealed  to  by  those  who  discuss  this  question,  it  will 
be  well  for  us  to  ask  here  what  psychology  has  to  say 
upon  the  matter. 

The  psychological  arguments  in  favour  of  the  free- 
dom of  the  will  are  two.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  said, 
we  choose  and  decide  even  when  the  rival  groups  of 
ideas  are  of  equal  strength,  when  the  two  conflicting 
situations  are  equally  attractive  or  equally  repulsive. 
This  shows  that  the  mind  is  free  to  choose  or  resolve 
as  it  pleases.  Secondly,  after  we  have  chosen  or 
decided,  we  are  confident  that  we  might  have  chosen 
differently;  a  reexamination  of  the  motives  shows 


§  105.    The  Freedom  of  the  Will  255 

that  there  was  nothing  in  them  that  could  force  or 
compel  us  to  choose  as  we  did.  But  if  the  motive 
upon  which  we  acted  did  not  compel  us  to  act,  the 
mind  must  itself  have  added  to  the  power  of  that 
motive,  must  have  turned  freely  to  the  one  situation 
rather  than  to  the  other. 

There  are,  however,  two  criticisms  to  be  made  and  their 
upon  these  arguments,  (i)  They  both  speak  of  the 
mind  as  if  it  were  a  living,  acting  creature.  That  is 
the  popular  view  of  mind  :  but  we  have  given  it  up 
for  the  scientific  view,  which  is  that  mind  is  a  stream 
of  mental  processes  (§4).  It  is  natural,  perhaps,  to 
think  of  a  mind-creature  as  choosing  freely  ;  it  is  very 
difficult  to  think  of  a  stream  of  processes  as  making 
a  choice.  Yet  this  is  what  we  should  be  obliged  to 
think,  if  the  arguments  held.  But  they  do  not  hold : 
for  (2)  they  both  assume  that  the  conscious  motives 
to  action  are  the  sole  conditions  of  action.  Now  this 
is  a  wholly  unwarrantable  assumption  :  the  arguments 
have  missed  the  fact  that  bodily  tendency,  natural  and 
acquired,  —  the  trend  of  the  whole  nervous  system, 
to  which  no  conscious  process  corresponds,  —  helps 
the  conscious  motives  to  determine  action.  The 
tendency-channels  in  which  some  cortical  excitations 
run  are  deep  and  well-worn ;  those  which  others  find 
open  are  shallow  and  difficult.  Naturally,  then,  the 
motives  that  correspond  to  excitations  of  the  former 
sort  gain  the  victory  over  their  rivals  of  the  latter  sort 
(§  32).  While  there  is  all  the  appearance  of  fair  play, 
nature  is  working  behind  the  scenes,  favouring  the  one 
contestant  and  hindering  the  other. 

As  psychologists,  therefore,  we  cannot  accept  the 


256  The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 

freedom  of  the  will  unless  (i)  we  throw  away  out 
scientific  definition  of  mind,  and  return  to  the  popular 
notions  held  about  it.  And  further,  (2)  as  psycholo- 
gists we  are  able  to  explain,  by  means  of  nervous 
tendencies,  certain  phenomena  of  choice  which  are 
commonly  supposed  to  furnish  a  basis  for  the  belief 
in  freedom.  On  the  other  hand,  we  must  always  re- 
member that  psychology  is  not  the  sole  judge  of  the 
question. 

Secondary          §  IO6.  Psychomotor  Action  and  Automatic  Movement. 

psychomotor 

action.  — The  psychomotor  action  that  we  have  now  to  dis- 

cuss is  derived  from  selective  or  volitional  action. 
Some  particular  impulse  is  habitually  victorious  in 
the  conflict  of  deliberation,  and  gradually  degenerates 
as  the  result  of  victory.  Hence  this  psychomotor  ac- 
tion differs  from  that  of  §  71  in  two  circumstances. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  of  higher  parentage :  the  impul- 
sive action  from  which  it  descends  is  an  action  whose 
motive  is  of  the  complex  kind  described  in  §  102,  —  an 
impulse  in  which  the  object-perception  is  replaced  by 
an  object-situation.  Secondly,  this  complex  impulse 
is  not  one  of  the  universal  animal  impulses,  such  as 
food-taking,  but  an  impulse  which  has  been  put 
together  in  the  course  of  a  single  lifetime.  In  ori- 
gin, then,  and  in  matter,  there  is  a  difference ;  in  all 
other  respects  the  actions  are  identical. 

Instance.  An  extremely  good  instance  of  this  secondary  sensorimotor 

action  is  to  be  found  in  the  playing  of  a  skilled  pianist. 
When  we  are  learning  to  play  the  piano,  our  actions  are 
one  and  all  selective ;  we  have  to  think  which  dot  upon 
the  score  stands  for  which  note  upon  the  keyboard,  and 
which  finger  is  to  be  set  down  where.  As  we  become 


§  io6.  Psychomotor  Action,  Automatic  Movement  257 

adepts,  the  reading  of  the  score  becomes  more  and  more 
mechanical ;  until  at  last,  if  we  are  skilful  players,  the  bare 
sight  of  the  printed  sheet  'touches  off"  the  movements  of 
hands  and  feet ;  we  fall  instinctively  into  the  right  key,  the 
right  time,  the  right  emphasis,  etc.  We  may  even  carry 
on  a  conversation,  and  still  play  correctly,  though  we  have 
never  seen  the  score  before. — Speaking  from  internal  initia- 
tive is  an  instance  of  secondary  ideomotor  action. 

The  automatic  movement  differs   from  the  reflex  Automatic 
(§  72)  in  the  same  two  ways.     It  is  the  final  degen-  refl^mov 
eration-product  of  selective  or  volitional,  not  of  simple  ment- 
impulsive  action ;  and  its  mechanism  is  not  inherited, 
but  acquired  during  the  individual  life.     This  latter 
fact  means,  of  course,  that  it  is  less  stable  than  the 
reflex.     It  is  a  reflex  movement  while  it  lasts;    but 
it  may  be  forgotten,  the  habit  of  it  may  be  broken  up. 

A  man  who  writes  much  at  a  particular  desk  will  dip  his  Instances, 
pen  in  the  ink-bottle  quite  automatically,  reflexly.  He  does 
not  need  to  gauge  the  distance  or  direction  or  the  depth  of 
dip ;  his  eyes  are  not  raised  from  the  paper,  and  his  attention 
does  not  slip  for  a  moment  from  the  subject  in  hand.  So 
one  may  be  able  to  write  quickly  and  accurately  with  a 
typewriter,  without  having  any  certain  idea  at  all  of  the 
position  of  the  various  letters  :  the  striking  here  or  there 
becomes  entirely  automatic. 

Nevertheless,  if  the  writing  be  given  up  for  a  time,  the 
movement  must  be  relearned  :  the  pen  is  guided  to  the 
ink-bottle  by  the  eye,  and  the  typewriter  strokes  are  prac- 
tised anew.  On  the  other  hand,  a  real  reflex  never  lapses  ; 
a  feather  applied  to  the  sole  of  your  foot  makes  the  foot  jerk 
up,  however  long  the  interval  since  the  last  tickling. 

Swimming  and  walking  seem  to  stand  half-way  between 
the  automatic  and  the  reflex  movements.  Both  are  learned 
with  care  and  effort ;  neither,  it  would  appear,  is  ever  quite 
forgotten.  The  reason  is  that  though  we  do  not  inherit  the 


258 


The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 


The  forms 
of  action. 


mechanism  of  the  movements  ready-made,  we  inherit  strong 
tendencies  or  dispositions  towards  them. 

For  automatic  movements  cf.  H.,  301  ;  F.,  739,  779.  For  the 
bodily  machinery  of  the  complex  movement  in  general  cf.  F., 
729  if.,  739  ff. 

§  107.  The  Classification  of  Action.  —  It  will,  per- 
haps, assist  the  reader  to  grasp  the  mutual  relations 
of  the  various  forms  of  action  and  movement,  to  see 
the  motor  side  of  mind,  so  to  speak,  in  its  right  per- 
spective, if  we  give  a  complete  Table  here  in  the 
shape  of  a  genealogical  tree. 

Primitive  Action 
(Movement  of  whole  body  on  attention :  §  68) 

SIMPLE  IMPULSIVE  ACTION 
(Idea  of  own  movement,  Perception  of  Object, 
Idea  of  result :  §§  69,  70) 

I 

r~      ~T~          ~T~  ~i 

Psychomotor   Instinctive    Complex  Impulsive  Complex  Impulsive 

Action       Movement              Action  Action 

(§70          (§73)        (Idea  of  own  move-  (Idea  of  own  move- 

|                    |             ment,  Perception  of  ment,  Perception  of 

emotion-situation,  sentiment-situation, 

Idea  of  result :  Idea  of  result : 

§  102)  §  102) 


Reflex        Instinctive 

Movement 

Action 

(§ 

72) 

(§73) 

Mecl 

lanical 

Movement 

(of  blood, 

intestines, 

etc.: 

§72) 

Selective  Action 

(§  102) 


Volitional  Action 
(§  103) 


[Secondary]  Psychomotor  Action  (§  106] 

I 
Automatic  Movement  (§  106). 


§  108.   The  Compound  Reaction. — Taking  the  sen- 
sorial  form  of  the  simple  reaction  as  our  starting- 


§  io8.    The  Compound  Reaction  259 

point,  we  can  build  up,  for  introspective  examination, 
artificial  selective  and  volitional  actions,  and  can  trace 
experimentally  their  passage  into  psychomotor  actions 
and  automatic  movements. 

But  we  cannot  pass  from  the  sensorial  reaction  to  TWO  kinds 
the  '  choice  reaction,'  as  it  is  called,  at  one  step.  For 
there  are  two  obvious  differences  between  impulsive 
and  selective  action.  In  the  former,  the  action-con- 
sciousness contains  one  idea  of  movement  and  one 
perception  (or  idea)  of  object.  In  the  latter,  there 
are  at  least  two  ideas  of  movement,  and  at  least  two 
perceptions  (or  ideas)  of  object.  Otherwise,  of  course, 
there  could  be  no  conflict  of  impulses.  —  If  we  are  to 
have  an  artificial  selective  action,  then,  there  must  be 
a  number  of  stimuli  presented  by  the  experimenter, 
and  a  number  of  responsive  movements  agreed  upon 
between  him  and  the  subject.  But  it  would  be  bad 
policy  to  introduce  both  of  these  complications  at  the 
same  time.  On  the  one  hand,  the  subject  would  be 
confused ;  on  the  other,  we  should  not  know  what 
the  total  reaction-time  meant.  Much  of  it  might  repre- 
sent processes  that  were  very  different  from  the  process 
of  choice  which  we  desire  to  measure  and  introspect. 

To  avoid  this  difficulty,  we  first  of  all  make  reac- 
tion-experiments in  which  there  are  two  or  more 
stimuli,  but  only  one  answering  movement.  That 
done,  we  proceed  to  the  more  difficult  experiments, 
in  which  every  stimulus  has  its  own  particular  move- 
ment of  response.  The  subject  thus  has  opportunity 
to  observe  the  simpler  forms  of  the  action-conscious- 
ness, in  ascending  order,  before  he  grapples  with  its 
most  complex  and  most  highly  developed  form. 


26O 


The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 


Discrimina- 
tion and 
cognition 
reactions. 


What  is  said  here  of  the  artificial  selective  action 
holds  also,  mutatis  mutandis,  of  the  artificial  volitional 
action.  This  will  become  clear  from  a  consideration 
of  the  actual  experiments. 

I.  Experiments  with  a  Number  of  Stimuli  and  One  Move- 
ment.—  Two  forms  of  the  reaction-experiment  fall  under 
this  head. 

1.  The  Discrimination  Reaction.  —  In  the  simple  sen- 
sorial  reaction,  the  subject  moves  when  he  has  apperceived 
a  familiar  stimulus,  a  sound  or  pressure  which  has  become 
known  to  him  by  previous  practice.     In  the  discrimination 
reaction,  he  moves  when  he  has  apperceived  some  one  of 
two  or  more  familiar  stimuli.     He  may  be  told,  e.g.,  that  he 
will  hear  either  the  tone  or  the  noise  with  which  his  simple 
reactions  have  familiarised    him ;    but  he  does  not   know 
which  of  the  two  stimuli  will  be  presented  in  any  particular 
experiment. 

This  reaction  plainly  stands  at  a  higher  level  than  the  sen- 
sorial  simple  reaction.  The  subject  comes  to  the  work  in 
the  state  of  active  attention  ;  his  mood  is  that  of  intellectual 
obscurity  (§  97).  When  the  stimulus  appears,  obscurity 
becomes  agreement  or  contradiction,  according  as  his  ex- 
pectation has  tended  in  the  right  or  the  wrong  direction. 
As  soon  as  the  sentiment  has  been  resolved  upon  the  at- 
home  mood  of  recognition,  and  before  the  stimulus  has 
calle'd  up  associated  ideas,  verbal  or  other,  the  reaction- 
movement  is  made. 

2.  The  Cognition  Reaction.  —  This  differs  from  the  dis- 
crimination reaction  in  the  fact  that  the  stimuli  are  known  to 
the  subject  only  in  a  vague  and  general  way.     Thus  he  may 
be  told  that  he  will  hear  a  musical  sound,  and  that  he  is  to 
move  when  he  has  apperceived  it ;  but  he  is  not  told  (what 
the  experimenter  has  decided)  that  the  sound  will  be  given 
upon  some  one  of  the  three  instruments,  piano,  violin  and 
whistle. 


§  io8.    The  Compound  Reaction  261 

Here  the  strain  of  active  attention  is  greater  than  before ; 
the  mood  of  recognition  takes  shape  more  slowly ;  and  it  is 
very  difficult  to  move  before  associated  ideas  crop  up,  —  to 
keep  to  the  rule  of  the  experiment,  and  prevent  the  reaction 
from  becoming  an  association  reaction  (§  76). 

The  following  are  some  of  the  times  of  cognition  reactions : 

Colour  stimuli 300  sec. ; 

Printed  letters 320  sec. ; 

Short  words  (printed)          .        .        .     .320  sec. 

The  times  of  discrimination  reactions  are  slightly  less  than 
the  corresponding  cognition  times. 

II.   Experiments  with  a  Number  of  Stimuli,  each  of  which   Choice 
if  correlated  either  with  a  Specific  Movement  or  with  the  reactlons- 
Absence  of  Movement.  —  All   these  reactions  are   termed 
'  choice  reactions.'     The  choice  reaction  may  be  either  an 
artificial  selective  or  an  artificial  volitional  action.     More- 
over, it  may  be  based  either  upon  the  discrimination  or 
upon  the  cognition  reaction.     Hence  we  have  four  experi- 
mental forms  to  consider. 

1.  The  Choice  Reaction  as  Selective  Action. 

a.  The  Discrimination  Type. — The  reactor  is  told,  e.g., 
that  he  will  hear  either  the  familiar  noise  or  the  familiar 
tone ;  and  that  he  is  to  react  to  the  former  by  a  movement 
of  the  right,  to  the  latter  by  a  movement  of  the  left  hand. 

b.  The  Cognition  Type.  —  The  reactor  is  told  that  he  will 
hear  a  musical  sound,  and  that  he  is  to  react  to  what  comes 
by  naming  it,  by  uttering  aloud  the  name  of  the  instrument 
which  gives  it.     The  movement  is  here  a  movement  of  the 
muscles  of  the  larynx,  etc.,  not  a  movement  of  the  hand. 

2.  The  Choice  Reaction  as  Volitional  Action. 

a.  The  Discrimination  Type.  —  The  subject  is  told  that  he 
will  hear  either  the  familiar  noise  or  the  familiar  tone,  and 
that  he  is  to  reply  to  the  former  by  a  movement  of  the 
right  hand,  but  not  to  reply  to  the  latter  by  any  movement. 

b.  The  Cognition  Type.  —  The  subject  is  told  that  he  will 


262  The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 

hear  either  a  musical  or  an  unmusical  sound,  and  that  he  is 
to  react  to  the  former  by  naming  the  instrument  which  gives 
it,  but  not  to  react  to  the  latter  at  all. 

It  is  clear  that  we  have,  in  these  four  instances,  cases  of 
true  selective  and  true  volitional  action.  The  reaction-times 
are,  naturally,  longer  than  those  of  the  discrimination  and 
cognition  reactions.  Volitional  action  requires,  upon  the 
whole,  a  slightly  less  time  than  selective  action. 

Automatic  3.    The  Automatic  Reaction.  —  If  the  conditions  of  the 

reactions.  choice  reaction  are  kept  sufficiently  simple,  and  if  the  sub- 
ject is  held  in  steady  practice  for  a  long  period  of  time,  we 
get  the  first  form  of  what  is  called  the  '  automatic '  reaction, 
an  artificial  sensorimotor  action  (cf.  §  76).  If,  e.g.,  the  stim- 
uli are  but  two  in  number,  and  as  different  from  each  other 
as  a  tuning-fork  tone  and  a  rap  upon  a  wooden  block ;  and 
if  the  movements  of  response  are  made  by  the  forefingers  of 
the  two  hands ;  then  the  whole  experiment  may  quite  well 
become  '  automatic '  in  the  course  of  an  investigation  which 
demands  daily  work  for  some  months  together.  Should 
practice  be  continued  still  further,  the  sensorimotor  action 
may  degenerate  into  true  automatic  or  secondary  reflex 
movement :  this  happens  more  readily  with  the  selective 
than  with  the  volitional  reaction.  At  each  stage  of  the 
descent,  the  reaction-time  undergoes  a  marked  shortening. 

All  these  forms  of  the  reaction-experiment  are 
important.  They  enable  us  to  introspect  complex 
motives  under  standard  conditions,  and  to  trace  the 
degeneration  of  the  highest  types  of  action  into 
lower  types. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

I.  The  Compound  Reaction.  —  By  help  of  the  side  wire,  all  the 
compound  reactions  may  be  taken  (in  visual  form)  upon 
Professor  Sanford's  reaction-timer. 

I.    I     The   Discrimination   Reaction.  —  Use   three  known 
stimuli :  black,  white  and  grey,  or  red,  yellow  and 


Questions  and  Exercises  263 

blue.  Vary  the  stimulus  from  experiment  to  ex- 
periment. Then  repeat  the  experiments  with  four, 
five,  etc.,  known  stimuli. 

I.  2.  The  Cognition  Reaction.  — Prepare  a  series  of  some 
twenty  colours,  and  one  of  five  brightnesses  (from 
black  to  white,  inclusive).  Tell  the  subject  that 
he  will  see  'a  colour1  or  'a  brightness  quality.' 

For  both  these  forms  of  the  reaction-experi- 
ment, printed  letters  (small  letters  and  capitals) 
and  words  of  three  or  four  letters  may  be  used  in 
place  of  the  colours  and  brightnesses.  Choose  a 
heavy-faced  type,  with  no  flourishes  to  the  letters. 
Mount  the  letters  and  words  separately,  upon 
small  pieces  of  white  cardboard. 

II.  I.  a.  Selective  Discrimination.  —  Take  five  known 
brightnesses,  and  let  the  subject  react  to  each 
by  the  movement  of  a  particular  finger  of  the 
right  hand.  In  this  experiment  the  reacting 
hand  is  not  placed  upon  the  upper  key  before 
the  experiment  begins,  but  lies  upon  the  table, 
close  beside  the  instrument.  Record  the  mis- 
taken movements,  as  well  as  the  correct  re- 
actions. Note  the  influence  of  practice  in 
eliminating  mistakes.  —  Or  take  ten  known 
colours,  and  assign  a  particular  colour  to  each 
of  the  ten  fingers.  In  this  case,  the  subject's 
two  hands  lie  upon  the  table,  at  equal  distances 
from  the  key. 

II.  I.  b.  Selective  Cognition.  —  Tell  the  subject  that  he 
will  see  'a  colour.1  Let  him  place  his  finger 
on  the  key  before  the  experiment  begins.  He 
must  name  the  stimulus,  and  press  his  key 
down  at  the  moment  that  he  utters  the  word. 

11.  2.  a.  Volitional  Discrimination.  —  Tell  the  subject  that 
he  will  see  either  some  one  of  five  known  colours 
or  a  neutral  grey.  He  is  to  respond  to  the 
colours  by  moving  the  appropriate  finger  of  the 
right  hand  (which  lies  upon  the  table)  ;  he  is 
not  to  move  at  all  in  response  to  the  grey. 
Record  (i)  the  finger  mistakes  (use  of  second 


264 


The  Complex  Forms  of  Action 


for  third  finger,  etc.)  and  (2)  the  incorrect 
reactions  (movements  made  in  response  to 
grey) .  Note  the  influence  of  practice. 

II.  2.  b.  Volitional  Cognition. — Tell  the  subject  that  he 
will  see  either  a  colour  or  a  neutral  grey.  He 
is  to  react^  to  the  colours  by  naming  them 
(pressing  the  key  as  he  speaks)  ;  he  is  not  to 
react  to  the  grey. 

111.  i .  Psychomotor  Action.  —  Take  two  known  stimuli,  black 
and  white.  White  is  to  be  answered  by  move- 
ment of  the  right,  black  by  movement  of  the  left 
hand.  Let  the  subject  repeat '  white  —  right,  black 
—  left,'  until  the  connection  of  ideas  is  firmly 
established.  Continue  practice  until  the  selective 
discrimination  becomes  sensorimotor  action. 

III.  2.  Automatic  Movement. — Continue  practice  of  III.  I 
still  further.  Engage  the  subject  in  conver- 
sation during  an  experimental  series,  and  note 
that  he  is  able  to  react  correctly  while 
his  attention  is  diverted  from  the  experi- 
ment. 

Fig.  1 8  shows  a  special  form  of  the  side  wire, 
for  use  in  compound  reactions.  The  upper  end 
carries  a  large  metal  disc,  upon  which  six  stimulus- 
discs  of  different  colour  or  brightness  can  be  placed. 
By  turning  the  milled  edge  of  the  metal  disc  any 
one  of  the  six  stimuli  can  be  brought  behind  the 
opening  of  the  black  screen.  A  spring  catch  at 
the  back  holds  the  disc  in  the  required  position. 

Certain  forms  of  compound  reaction  to  auditory 
stimulus  can  be  carried  out  on  the  pattern  of  the 
association  reaction  to  spoken  words  (p.  185). 
2.  We  spoke  in  §  76  as  if  the  association  re- 
action were  based  directly  upon  the  simple 
sensorial  reaction.  Is  this  strictly  correct? 
Give  instances,  from  history  and  fiction,  (i)  of  selective  action, 
(2)  of  volitional  action  and  (3)  of  conflicts  of  ideas  from 
which  volitional  action  might  have  resulted,  but  did  not,  — 
i.e.,  of  cases  in  which  the  no-movement  ideas  were  stronger 
than  the  impulse  to  action. 


FIG.  18 


Questions  and  Exercises  265 

4.  Can  you  illustrate  the  statement  of  §  102  that  'instinctive' 

selection  is  sometimes  a  better  guide  to  conduct  than  <  de- 
liberative '  selection  ? 

5.  Name  some   of  the   automatic  movements  most  commonly 

acquired  by  civilised  man. 

6.  What  is  ' desire '?     How  does  it  differ  from  impulse? 

7.  On  p.  255  it  is  said   that  '  Nature  is  working   behind   the 

scenes.'    Can  you  translate  this  figure  into  scientific  terms? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  pp.  124-126,  ch.  xxiii. 
Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  II.,  ch.  xviii. 
Titchener,  Outline,  §§  68,  69,  94-97. 
Wundt,  Lectures,  Lects.  XV.,  XXIX. 
Wundt,  Outlines,  §  14. 


CHAPTER   XIV 
ABNORMAL  PSYCHOLOGY 

sleep.  §  109.  Sleep  and  Dreams.  —  The  series  of  waking 

consciousnesses  (§  17)  is  interrupted,  at  fairly  regular 
intervals,  by  a  period  of  sleep.  From  the  physiologi- 
cal side,  sleep  is  a  rest  or  recuperation  of  the  whole 
body,  and  more  especially  of  the  nervous  system  and 
its  attachments  (sense-organs  and  muscles).  In  pro- 
found sleep  the  brain  is  comparatively  bloodless,  and 
therefore  inactive.  No  impressions  make  their  way 
inwards,  through  the  channels  of  sense,  from  the 
external  world  ;  no  excitations  are  sent  outward  to 
the  muscles.  The  muscular  system  is  relaxed,  and 
the  position  that  the  body  assumes  is  simply  a  matter 
of  the  relative  weight  of  its  parts  (cf.  the  discussion 
of  drowsiness :  §  25). 

Dreaming.  During  sleep  of  this  profound  character,  conscious- 
ness seems  to  lapse  altogether:  for  the  time  being 
there  is  no  mind;  the  bodily  conditions  of  mental 
process  are  not  realised.  In  the  lighter  stages  of 
sleep,  on  the  other  hand,  we  dream.  Mental  pro- 
cesses appear,  and  consciousnesses  are  formed ;  the 
outside  world  finds  access  to  the  brain.  Sometimes, 
though  less  often,  we  walk  or  talk  in  our  sleep ; 
excitations  are  sent  out  from  the  brain  to  the  mus- 
cles. But  the  world  of  the  dreamer  and  of  the  sleep- 
walker is  not  the  real  world  of  the  waking  life ; 
their  consciousness  is  abnormal,  i.e.,  is  in  a  different 

266 


§  I  io.    Origin  and  Composition  of  Dreams     267 

state  from  the  waking,  attentive  or  inattentive  con- 
sciousness. Dreaming  has  something  in  common 
both  with  attention  and  with  inattention,  but  is  dif- 
ferent from  either.  We  must  find  out,  briefly,  how 
dreams  arise,  and  in  what  their  difference  from  the 
waking  consciousness  consists. 

§  no.   The  Origin  and  Composition  of  Dreams.  —  It  Dreams  set 
is  generally  thought  that  dreams  arise   '  inside  the  "£i  stimuiT 
head,'  as  the  result  of  some  excitement  of  the  brain 
itself.     Recent  experiments  and  observations  have, 
however,  made  it  practically  certain  that  dreams  are 
set  up  as  perceptions  are,  by  the  stimulation  of  some 
sense-organ.     After  eye  or  ear  or  internal  organ  has 
been  stimulated,  the  brain  goes  on  working  indepen- 
dently (law  of  habit,  §  57) ;  just  as,  in  the  waking  life, 
a  single  perception  may  start  a  long  train  of  ideas. 

Since  every  sense-organ  is  liable  to  chance  stimu-  Dreams 
lation,  it  follows  that  dreams  may  be  made  of  any  ™a°s 
kind  of  sense-material :  we  may  dream  in  sights 
or  in  sounds,  in  strains  or  in  temperatures.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  by  far  the  greater  number  of  dreams 
(whatever  their  stimulus  may  be)  are  visual  dreams. 
The  incoming  excitations  are  translated  into  visual 
terms  (§  50).  If  the  bodily  condition  of  the  dream 
is  a  stimulation  of  the  temperature  organs,  we  may 
see  ourselves  ascending  Etna  or  sleighing  across  an 
ice-field ;  if  it  is  a  cramped  position  of  the  muscles, 
we  see  an  army  of  crabs  advancing  to  pinch  us,  or  a 
swarm  of  bees  settling  to  sting ;  if  it  is  a  taste,  we 
see  ourselves  eating  some  delicious  or  disgusting 
food  ;  and  so  on. 


268  Abnormal  Psychology 

Dream  We  take  every  precaution  to  avoid  dreams :  we  go  to 

sleep  in  a  dark  and  quiet  room,  we  rid  ourselves  of  the 
friction  of  our  clothes,  we  keep  a  constant  temperature  in 
the  bedroom,  we  lie  down,  etc.  Nevertheless,  we  cannot 
rule  out  the  circulation  of  blood  in  the  retina  and  the  press- 
ure of  the  lids  upon  the  eyeballs,  the  thump  of  the  pulse 
in  the  vessels  of  the  ear,  the  slipping  down  of  the  bed- 
clothes, the  palpitation  of  the  heart,  the  disturbances  of  in- 
digestion, etc.  Any  one  of  these  may  serve  as  the  condition 
of  a  dream. 

Why  dreams  The  reason  why  the  incoming  excitations  are  so  often 
translated  into  terms  of  sight  is  twofold.  In  the  first  place, 
the  eye  is  extremely  sensitive  both  to  slight  changes  of  light 
and  to  changes  in  the  pressure  of  the  eyelids,  the  state  of 
circulation  in  the  retina,  etc. ;  and  the  sensations  thus  set 
up  (sparks,  flashes  of  colour)  are  reinforced  by  the  cortical 
grey  sensation  (§  17).  If  there  were  no  subjective  grey, 
the  eye  might  have  no  advantage  over  the  ear  as  a  means 
of  starting  a  dream ;  if  the  retina  were  not  so  sensitive,  the 
subjective  grey  might  lapse  during  sleep.  The  two  things 
together  —  excitability  of  the  sense-organ,  and  excitability 
of  the  cortex  —  favour  the  arousal  of  visual  dreams.  In  the 
second  place,  we  dream  largely  in  terms  of  sight  for  the 
same  reason  that  we  remember  and  imagine  largely  in  terms 
of  sight ;  the  eye  is  the  most  important  of  all  the  sense- 
organs,  the  organ  most  frequently  used,  and  the  organ  most 
relied  upon  for  knowledge  of  the  outside  world.  Hence 
the  visual  centre  of  the  cortex  has  multitudinous  connec- 
tions with  all  the  other  brain -centres,  and  is  readily  excited 
when  any  one  of  them  is  excited.  —  It  may,  of  course,  be 
questioned  whether  some  dreams,  actually  experienced  in 
other  terms,  are  not  translated  into  terms  of  sight  in  the 
waking  consciousness,  when  they  are  recalled  and  reported. 

§111.  The  Characteristics  of  the  Dream  Consciousness. 
—  The  two  chief  differences  between  the  dreaming 
and  the  waking  consciousness  are  ( I )  that  the  train  of 


§  ill.  Characteristics  of  Dream  Consciousness   269 

dream  ideas  is  disorderly  and  fantastic  in  its  arrange- 
ment, and  (2)  that  in  spite  of  this  disorder  the  dream 
is  taken  for  granted,  and  the  reality  of  its  incidents 
unquestioned.  Both  these  facts  call  for  explanation. 

(i)  The  fantastic  arrangement  of  dream  ideas  is  Fantastic 
due  to  the  irregular  distribution  and  limitation  of  ^"dream6" 
attention  during  sleep.  Attention  is  selective ;  while  ideas- 
one  thing  is  attended  to,  others  are  attended  from. 
But,  in  the  sleeping  cortex,  the  selection  is  made  at 
hap-hazard ;  within  very  wide  limits,  every  excitation 
has  the  same  chances  as  every  other.  The  organism  is 
free,  for  a  few  hours,  from  the  special  bias  and  lean- 
ing (§  32)  given  it  by  the  routine  of  daily  employ- 
ment ;  there  is  as  much  likelihood  of  a  play-channel 
being  open  as  of  a  work-channel,  of  a  childhood- 
channel  as  of  a  recently  formed,  professional  channel. 
Only  the  oldest  and  most  fundamental  formations  of 
consciousness  —  space  perception,  personal  identity, 
etc.  —  remain  throughout.  So  we  have,  in  dreaming, 
an  exaggeration  of  the  flights  and  fancies  of  day- 
dreaming and  reverie.  The  ideas  that  come  up  are 
all  held  together  by  association ;  but,  since  we  are 
not  attending  to  any  particular  topic,  the  range  of 
association,  the  area  of  experience  from  which  the 
ideas  may  arrive,  is  extraordinarily  great. 

Dreams,  then,  are  not  entirely  disorderly.     The  law  of  as-   Law  of  asso 
sociation  holds ;  the  seeming  disorder  means  simply  that  the  Ration  in 
range  of  associated  ideas  available  for  a  consciousness  is  much 
larger  than  usual ;  and  the  range  is  larger,  because  no  limit 
as  to  topic,  period  of  time,  etc.,  is  set  by  attention.     Nor  are 
the  bodily  tendencies  done  away  with  :  they  are  all  there,  in 
the  cortex,  so  that  no  one  of  us  could  dream  his  neighbour's 
dreams.     The  difference  is  that,  in  the  waking  life,  some 
tendencies  are  appealed  to  by  daily  business,  by  surroundings, 
etc.,  while  others  are  left  unrealised ;  whereas  in  the  dream 


2/o  Abnormal  Psychology 

consciousness  all  the  tendencies  have  the  same  prospect  of 
realisation.  There  is  nothing  to  guide  the  stream  of  processes, 
no  environmental  pressure  upon  the  organism  ;  an  excitation 
is  as  likely  to  run  into  any  one  open  channel  as  into  any  other. 

Why  dream         (2)  Our  unquestioning  acceptance  of  dream  events, 

events  are 

taken  for  an  acceptance  that  we  are  puzzled  to  account  for  on 
granted.  waking,  is  due  to  two  things.  In  the  first  place,  we 
have  in  dreaming  no  means  of  testing  or  checking 
what  happens.  In  the  waking  life  we  compare  event 
with  event ;  in  the  dream  there  is  nothing  to  compare 
the  train  of  ideas  with.  In  dreaming,  e.g.,  the  time 
is  always  present  time ;  even  if  we  are  interviewing 
Alexander  the  Great,  the  interview  is  occurring  now . 
Periods  of  time  are  foreshortened  in  the  most  arbi- 
trary way :  we  have  the  occurrences  of  a  whole  day 
in  a  few  seconds,  very  much  as  we  do  in  a  novel  or 
a  play.  As  there  is  no  standard  to  refer  to,  there 
can  be  no  question  in  the  dreamer's  mind  as  to  the 
possibility  or  impossibility,  the  correctness  or  absurd- 
ity, of  the  dream  scenes. 

In  the  second  place,  dream  ideas  are  exceedingly 
vivid  and  impressive ;  and  this  vividness  helps  to 
make  us  accept  them.  If  you  are  aroused  in  the 
morning  by  a  tapping  at  your  door,  and  if  (as  may 
easily  happen)  the  sounds  set  up  a  dream  before  they 
thoroughly  awaken  you,  you  dream  of  thunder  or  the 
roar  of  artillery  or  the  crash  of  a  falling  house,  and 
are  astonished  when  you  wake  to  find  how  slight  the 
intensity  of  the  noise  really  is.  In  this  respect,  the 
dream  consciousness  resembles  (or  rather  counterfeits) 
the  attentive  consciousness  of  the  waking  life.  One 
of  the  principal  marks  of  the  state  of  attention  is  the 
clearness  and  vividness  of  the  idea  attended  to. 


§   112.    Hypnotism  271 

We  take  our  dreams  for  granted,  then,  because  we 
have  nothing  to  compare  them  with,  and  because  they 
are  made  up  of  clear  and  vivid  ideas. 

The  physiological  conditions  of  dreaming  are  but  little  The  cortical 

understood.     There  must,  apparently,  be  local  and  sporadic  conditi°ns  Ol 

/         ,  ,    dreaming, 

activity  in  the  cortex,  at  the  same  time  that  there  is  general 

inactivity.  The  coordination  of  the  cortex  by  means  of  the 
centre  for  touch  and  organic  sensation  (p.  225)  is  disturbed ; 
the  visual  centre  is  in  most  cases  more  or  less  active. 

The  lack  of  cortical  coordination  means  the  lack  of  guid- 
ance of  the  train  of  ideas,  i.e.,  the  absence  of  steady  or 
sustained  attention.  The  local  and  sporadic  character  of 
the  excitement  explains  the  fact  that  we  have  in  dreaming 
no  standard  of  comparison ;  the  ideas  come  in  single  file, 
and  are  passively  accepted  as  they  come.  It  is  not  easy  to 
account  for  the  vividness  of  the  ideas ;  perhaps  the  absence 
of  background,  of  perspective,  gives  them  a  factitious  value, 
—  much  as  we  take  a  fly  close  to  the  eye  for  a  crow 
seen  at  a  distance.  Lastly,  the  reason  that  we  do  not 
habitually  talk  and  walk  when  we  dream  must  be  sought  in 
a  blocking  of  the  nerve-paths  that  lead  from  the  sensory  to 
the  motor  centres,  or  from  these  to  the  muscles.  If  we  had, 
in  the  waking  life,  ideas  that  even  approached  the  dream 
ideas  in  vividness,  we  should  undoubtedly  move;  there 
would  be  ideomotor  action.  Hence  the  problem  is,  not 
why  we  sleep-walk,  but  why  we  do  not. 

§  112.  Hypnotism.  —  The  word  '  hypnotism  '  is  the 
general  name  for  a  group  of  abnormal  phenomena, 
bodily  and  mental,  many  of  which  bear  a  close  exter- 
nal resemblance  to  the  phenomena  of  sleep  and 
sleep-walking.  The  symptoms  of  the  hypnotic  state 
differ,  not  inconsiderably,  in  different  cases.  In 
general,  however,  three  stages  or  phases  of  hypnosis 
may  be  distinguished.  They  are  as  follows. 

(i)  Preliminary  Stage. — The  subject  is  heavy  or  drowsy.  The  three 
His  behaviour  is  very  like  that  of  a  man  just  aroused  from  stages  of 
sound  sleep,  and  not  yet '  come  to  himself.' 


272  Abnormal  Psychology 

(2)  Light  Hypnosis  or  Catalepsy. — The  subject  is  to 
some  extent  anaesthetic;  insensitive ;   his  sense-organs  are 
closed  to  all  the  ordinary  impressions  from  the  outside  world. 
At  the  same  time,  he  hears  what  is  said  to  him  by  the  opera- 
tor, and  performs  any  action  that  he  is  commanded.     He 
can  do  nothing  without  the  word  of  command ;  so  that  he 
will  maintain  a  position,  however  uncomfortable,  until  the 
order  comes  to  relax  it.     On  waking,  he  remembers  cloudily 
what  took  place  during  hypnosis. 

(3)  Profound  Hypnosis  or  Somnambulism.  —  The  anaes- 
thesia becomes  more  complete ;  and  the  subject  not  only 
acts  but  perceives  at  the  bidding  of  the  operator.     On  wak- 
ing, he  has  no  memory  of  what  has  taken  place. 

In  the  second  stage,  e.g.,  the  arm  of  a  subject  may  be  pricked 
with  needles,  and  there  will  be  no  indication  that  either  pressure 
or  pain  has  been  perceived ;  the  skin  is  anaesthetic.  Or  the  sub- 
ject may  be  laid  out  at  full  length  upon  a  row  of  chairs,  and  these 
all  removed  except  the  two  that  support  head  and  heels.  He 
will  remain  motionless,  in  this  tense  attitude,  until  released  by 
the  operator.  In  the  third  stage,  he  perceives  whatever  he  is 
told  to  perceive :  takes  coal  for  sugar,  ink  for  wine,  tapping  on 
the  table  for  the  playing  of  a  violin,  etc. 

Hypnotic  phenomena  have  attracted  much  atten- 
tion, of  late  years,  from  psychologists  and  physicians. 
We  have  to-day  a  pretty  complete  understanding  of 
them  on  the  psychological  side,  though  their  full 
explanation  will  be  impossible  until  our  knowledge 
of  brain  physiology  has  advanced  far  beyond  its 
present  limits. 

The  word  'hypnotism'  (Gk.  hypnos,  sleep)  was  coined  by 
James  Braid  (1795-1860),  an  English  surgeon  who  wrote  much 
on  hypnotic  phenomena  in  the  forties.  Braid's  books  are  still 
well  worth  consulting  by  the  student  of  hypnosis. 

§  113.  The  Conditions  of  Hypnosis. — The  question 
of  the  mental  conditions  of  the  hypnotic  state  falls 


§113.    The  Conditions  of  Hypnosis          273 


into  two  part-questions :  What  makes  one  hypnotis- 
able  ?  and:  How  much  has  the  operator  to  do  with 
the  production  of  the  hypnotic  state  ?  We  will  con- 
sider them  separately. 

(1)  The  sole  condition  of  hypnosis,  in  one's  own  Hypnosis  an 
mind,  is   an    entirely  rapt  or  absorbed  attention  to  attention, 
some  particular  person  or  thing.     The  depth  of  this 
attention  surpasses  that  of  any  of  the  three  phases  of 

the  normal  attentive  state  (passive,  active  and  second- 
ary passive  attention) ;  there  is  a  total  '  surrender  of 
the  will,'  as  the  popular  phrase  goes,  to  the  person 
or  thing  attended  to. 

The  hypnotic  consciousness,  then,  resembles  the  dream 
consciousness  in  the  fact  that  its  ideas  come  singly,  one 
after  another ;  only  one  part  of  the  cortex  is  in  active 
function.  Here,  however,  the  resemblance  ceases.  In 
dreaming,  there  is  fitful,  scattered  attention;  in  hypnosis,  an 
exaggeratedly  sustained  and  concentrated  passive  attention. 

Fig.  19  shows  the  dream  and  hypnotic  consciousnesses,  after 
the  pattern  of  Fig.  10.  The  stream 
of  consciousness  flows  out  of  the 
paper,  towards  the  reader.  In  a,  the 
dream  consciousness,  we  have  a  single, 
narrow  wave  ;  the  greater  part  of  the 
bed  of  the  stream  is  dry.  The  wave 
is  nearly  as  high  as  the  attention- 
wave  in  Fig.  10  b.  Below  we  have 
the  hypnotic  consciousness ;  a  state 
of  extreme  attention,  with  the  level 
of  the  ideas  attended  from  depressed 
almost  to  disappearance. 

(2)  The  '  influence '  that  the  operator  has  over  the  Hypnosis 
subject  is  an  influence  given  him  by  the  subject.     The 
condition  of  hypnosis  lies  in  the  subject,  not  in  the 
personality  of  some  other  man.     The  operator  has, 


JL 


FIG.  19 


274  Abnormal  Psychology 

it  is  true,  two  advantages.  He  asserts  emphatically 
that  he  '  can  hypnotise ' ;  and  we  all  tend  to  believe 
an  emphatic  assertion,  however  groundless  it  may  be. 
So  we  give  him  an  influence  over  us,  even  before  we 
have  seen  him.  And  the  operator  knows,  from  long 
experience  with  hypnotised  subjects,  how  we  shall 
most  easily  fall  into  the  hypnotic  state,  how,  i.e., 
our  complete  attention  can  best  be  secured  :  whether 
by  coaxing  or  by  bullying,  whether  by  strokings  that 
suggest  the  gradual  flow  of  a  power  from  him  or  by 
a  smart  stroke  on  the  back  of  the  neck  that  confuses 
us  for  a  moment,  etc.  All  the  '  methods '  of  hypno- 
tising are  so  many  tricks  to  bring  about  the  state  of 
rapt  and  absorbed  attention  in  the  subject's  mind. 

Three  corollaries  follow  from  this  statement  of  the  condi- 
tions of  hypnosis. 

(a)  The  presence  of  the  operator  is  not  required ;  one 
can   hypnotise  oneself.     It   is  only  necessary  to  close  the 
channels  of  sense  against  the  variety  of  outside   impres- 
sions  (by  sitting   in   a  dark  room,  listening  steadily  to  a 
faint  sound,  etc.),  and  to  attend  fixedly  to  the  idea  that 
one  will  fall  into  the  hypnotic  state  :  hypnosis  results.     This 
process  is  termed  self-suggestion  or  autosuggestion. 

(b)  Any  normal  person  can  be  hypnotised,  just  as  any 
normal  person  can  dream.     Only  young  children  and  idiots, 
who  are  '  scatter-brained,'  incapable  of  concentrated  atten- 
tion, are  also  incapable  of  hypnotisation.     People  differ  in 
liability  to  hypnosis,  as  they  do  in  liability  to  dreaming ;  but 
the  difference  is  merely  one  of  degree. 

(c)  Animals  could  be  hypnotised,  if  they  could  be  brought 
for  a  moment  into  the  state  of  extreme  attention.     Indeed, 
by  thoroughly  and  suddenly  frightening  an  animal,  one  can 
set  up  a  state  (known  as  cataplexy)  which  is,  at  least,  very 
similar  to  the  hypnotic  state.     Seize  a  frog  unexpectedly  by 


§  1 14.    Some  Debated  Questions  of  Hypnosis    275 

a  hind  leg,  as  a  heron  would  seize  it :  instead  of  struggling 
to  escape,  the  frog  becomes  rigid,  and  remains  perfectly 
quiet. 

§  1 14.  Some  Debated  Questions  of  Hypnosis.  —  There 
are  four  topics,  much  discussed  in  the  literature 
of  hypnotism,  about  which  it  may  be  well  to  say  a 
few  words  here.  They  are  rapport  and  suggestion, 
double  consciousness,  terminal  suggestion  and  the 
therapeutic  value  of  hypnosis. 

(i)  All  the  phenomena  of  hypnosis  can  be  summed  Suggestion 
up  in  the  single  word  suggestion.  The  operator  sug- 
gests to  the  subject  what  he  is  to  see  and  do;  the 
subject  suggests  to  himself  that  he  shall  enter  the 
hypnotic  state.  We  have  already  had  instances  of 
suggestion  in  the  Exercises  appended  to  Chapter  II. 
(cf.  §  88). 

Now  it  may  easily  happen,  after  the  subject  has  Rapport, 
acquired  a  general  belief  in  the  '  powers '  of  a  par- 
ticular operator,  that  he  passes  to  a  very  special 
belief  in  these  powers.  He  believes — either  be- 
cause the  operator  has  '  suggested '  it  to  him,  or 
because  he  has  'suggested'  it  to  himself  —  that  no 
one  but  this  operator  can  hypnotise  him.  It  then 
follows,  of  course,  that  the  required  concentration  of 
attention  can  be  secured  only  when  the  operator  is 
present.  Thus  arises  the  rapport,  as  it  is  called, 
between  hypnotiser  and  hypnotised. 

In  other  words,  the  rapport  consists  in  an  insistent  belief, 
in  the  subject's  mind,  that  one  and  only  one  man  can  hyp- 
notise him.  There  is  nothing  mysterious  about  it,  any  more 
than  there  would  be  about  the  contrary  belief  that  a  certain 
man  could  not  hypnotise  him.  The  rapport  is  often  set  up 


276  Abnormal  Psychology 

by  physicians,  with  patients  who  are  undergoing  hypnotic 
treatment,  to  avoid  interference  in  the  case  by  other  oper- 
ators. 

Double  con-  (2)  We  have  seen  that  the  subject  who  is  aroused 
from  the  somnambulistic  state  has  no  memory  of 
what  has  taken  place  during  hypnosis.  Oftentimes, 
however,  memory  is  carried  over  from  hypnosis  to 
hypnosis ;  i.e.,  the  subject,  when  rehypnotised,  re- 
members what  he  saw  and  did  in  the  previous  state 
of  somnambulism.  We  thus  have  an  alternation  of 
memories :  waking  memory,  hypnosis,  waking  mem- 
ory continued,  hypnotic  memory  continued,  waking 
memory  again,  hypnotic  memory  again,  and  so  on. 
This  phenomenon  has  received  the  name  of  double 
consciousness,  and  has  been  explained  by  the  hypo- 
thesis that  there  are  two  '  selves '  to  every  body,  a 
primary  (waking)  self  and  a  secondary  (trance)  self. 
The  hypothesis  is  unnecessary.  When  we  wake, 
whether  from  somnambulism  or  dreaming,  we  wake 
into  a  different  world  from  that  in  which  we  have 
been ;  the  functions  of  the  cortex  are  altered ;  there 
is  no  reason  why  we  should  remember  from  the  one 
state  to  the  other.  When  we  fall  asleep  again,  or 
are  rehypnotised,  we  go  back  into  the  unreal  world ; 
the  cortex  takes  on  its  former  functions  once  more ; 
there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  remember 
from  the  one  state  to  the  other. 

Everyone  knows  how  easily  dreams  are  forgotten  on 
waking.  And  most  readers  have,  probably,  had  the  experi- 
ence of  a  continuous  dream,  a  dream  that  is  continued  from 
night  to  night.  The  reason  that  dreams  are  not  more  often 
continuous  is  that  there  is  no  regulation  of  the  dream  con,- 


§  1 14.    Some  Debated  Questions  of  Hypnosis    277 

sciousness  by  attention ;  hence  the  course  of  the  train  of 
ideas  may  be  deflected  by  the  accidental  stimulation  of 
the  moment. 

The  first  time  that  the  author  '  took  gas '  for  a  dental  operation, 
he  had  a  vivid  and  detailed  dream.  He  has  taken  gas  on  three 
subsequent  occasions ;  and  each  time  the  same  dream  has  been 
repeated  and  continued.  The  incidents  of  the  first  dream  can 
be  traced  to  certain  experiences  of  the  waking  life :  so  that  it 
would  be  absurd  to  speak,  in  this  case,  of  a  double  conscious- 
ness. Yet  the  continuance  of  memory  from  somnambulism  to 
somnambulism  is  precisely  parallel. 

(3)  If  the  operator  suggests  to  a  subject  in  the  Terminal 
somnambulistic  state  that  he  do  something  so  long  s 
after  waking,  —  e.g.,  break   a   pane  of   glass  at  five 
o'clock, — the   action  is  usually  performed.     Such  a 
command  is  called  a  terminal  suggestion. 

The  explanation  is  that  the  operator's  suggestion 
of  the  time  at  which  the  action  shall  be  done  serves 
as  a  bridge  between  the  hypnotic  and  the  waking 
consciousnesses.  The  time-idea  is  common  to  both. 
Hence,  when  the  time  comes  round,  the  subject 
relapses  (by  association)  into  the  hypnotic  state,  and 
obeys  the  suggestion.  In  the  case  of  double  con- 
sciousness, just  discussed,  no  bridge  has  been  built 
by  the  operator  between  the  real  and  the  unreal 
worlds. 

(4)  We  come,  lastly,  to  the  question  whether  hyp-  Hypnosis  as 
nosis  can  be  employed  as  a  curative  agent   in  the 
treatment  of  disease.     The  answer  seems  to  be  that 

(a)  derangements  of  circulation   and    secretion,  and 

(b)  habits    like    alcoholism,    can    be    remedied    and 
removed  by  hypnotic  therapeutics.     Just  as  a  '  sug- 
gestion '    will    make    us    blush    (circulation)    or    cry 


278  Abnormal  Psychology 

(secretion)  in  the  waking  life,  so  will  the  stronger 
suggestion  of  the  somnambulistic  stage  work  greater 
changes  in  blood-supply  and  glandular  action.  And 
just  as  a  sharp  rebuke  will  keep  a  child  from  repeat- 
ing an  offence,  so  will  suggestion  restrain  the  drunk- 
ard and  the  morphine  taker.  On  the  other  hand, 
(c)  no  amount  of  suggestion  will  cure  typhoid  fever 
or  a  broken  leg ;  it  is  only  functional  disturbances 
that  hypnosis  can  cope  with.  Nor  is  hypnotism 
of  much  use  (d)  as  an  anaesthetic  ;  chloroform 
has  stood  the  test  of  hospital  practice  far  better. 
Finally,  (i)  even  at  the  best  there  are  grave  dangers 
connected  with  the  therapeutic  employment  of  hyp- 
nosis. The  patient  is  always  liable  to  suffer  relapse ; 
in  time,  he  may  fall  a  prey  to  a  '  hypnotic  habit '  as 
afflicting  as  the  alcohol  or  morphine  habit  of  which 
he  has  been  cured ;  and  it  has  been  observed,  in 
some  instances,  that  the  unhesitating  acceptance  of 
the  physician's  suggestion  has  led  to  an  equally  un- 
hesitating acceptance  of  all  statements,  so  that  the 
patient  loses  power  to  distinguish  between  the  proba- 
ble and  the  improbable,  and  believes  fables.  —  On  the 
whole,  then,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  remedy 
is  not  as  bad  as  the  disease. 

Mental  §  1 15.    Insanity   and    its   Conditions. — There   is   a 

great  difference  between  dreaming  and  hypnosis,  on 
the  one  hand,  and  insanity,  on  the  other,  although 
all  three  sets  of  phenomena  fall  under  the  general 
heading  of  'abnormal  psychology.'  Dreaming  and 
hypnosis  are  abnormal  states  of  a  normal  mind  ; 
they  show  a  deviation  from  the  rule  or  norm  of 


§  115.    Insanity  and  its  Conditions          279 

function  in  a  sound  cortex.  Insanity,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  the  sign  of  an  unsound  cortex,  of  a  diseased 
or  '  pathological '  state  of  the  brain.  Hence  while 
the  discussion  of  dreams  and  hypnotism  forms  a  sort 
of  appendix  to  normal  psychology,  the  discussion  of 
insanity,  in  all  its  various  modes,  begins  with  the 
consideration  of  temporary  disturbances  of  cortical 
action  (dreaming,  hypnosis,  intoxication)  and  then 
runs  parallel  with  the  discussion  of  the  normal  mind : 
disorders  of  perception,  of  idea,  of  association,  of 
emotion,  of  action,  etc.,  are  taken  up  in  turn.  It  is 
clear  from  this  that  the  subject  is  far  too  extensive 
for  us  to  offer  any  adequate  treatment  of  it  here : 
the  psychology  of  insanity,  like  child  psychology  and 
ethnic  psychology  (§§  118,  120),  requires  a  book  to 
itself.  We  can  do  no  more  than  note,  in  outline, 
the  conditions  of  mental  derangement  and  the  typi- 
cal forms  which  insanity  assumes. 

It  is  important  to  understand  the  difference  between  a 
pathological  state,  and  a  state  of  temporary  deviation  from 
the  norm  in  an  otherwise  sound  brain.  We  may  say,  per- 
haps, that  dreaming  and  hypnosis  stand  to  insanity  as  a 
sluggish  liver  stands  to  small-pox  or  a  crushed  foot ;  as 
occasional  alcoholic  intoxication,  with  its  elevation  of  mind, 
thickness  of  speech  and  unsteady  gait,  stands  to  the  maud- 
lin besottedness  and  incapacity  of  the  habitual  drunkard ; 
or  as  the  tiredness  of  an  athlete  after  severe  exercise  stands 
to  the  feeble  inertness  of  old  age.  We  shall,  indeed,  not 
be  far  wrong  if,  summing  up  in  a  single  word,  we  describe 
the  difference  as  that  between  a  derangement  of  function 
and  a  derangement  of  structure. 

The  conditions  of  insanity  are  usually  stated  to  be  Heredity 
of  two  kinds :  heredity  and  stress.     We  may  inherit 


280  Abnormal  Psychology 

a  badly  made  brain,  a  brain  loosely  put  together  of 
unstable  tissue.  In  that  case,  a  very  slight  shock 
will  destroy  our  mental  balance.  As  Dr.  Mercier 
says :  "A  jerry-built  villa  is  liable  to  be  blown  down 
by  a  storm  of  wind,  but  nothing  short  of  an  earth- 
quake will  destroy  a  well-constructed  mansion."  On 
the  other  hand,  we  may  inherit  a  fairly  well  made 
brain,  but  the  storm  and  stress  of  life  may  prove  too 
much  for  us :  in  this  case,  too,  we  lose  our  sanity. 

It  is  clear  that  these  two  factors  must  be  sharply 
distinguished  whenever  we  are  attempting  to  give 
the  conditions  of  a  particular  case  of  insanity.  If  I 
am  trying  to  find  out  what  drove  John  Smith  mad, 
I  must  enquire  (i)  whether  any  marked  tendency  to 
insanity  is  shown  by  his  family  records,  whether  his 
brothers  and  parents  and  grandparents  give  evidence 
of  '  good  '  or  '  bad  '  heredity,  and  (2)  whether  his  own 
life  has  been  peaceful  or  stormy.  But  it  is  equally 
clear  that,  regarded  historically,  the  two  reduce  to 
one :  the  badly  made  brain  that  is  inherited  by  John 
Smith  is  due,  in  the  last  resort,  to  the  stress  laid 
upon  his  ancestry.  Stress,  then,  is  the  general  con- 
dition of  insanity. 

Kinds  of  The  stresses  that  condition  insanity  are  classified  by  Dr. 

stress.  Mercier  as  follows  : 

(1)  Direct  Stresses. — 'Blows  on  the  head,  inflammation  of  the 

brain,  the  escape  of  blood  into  the  rigid  chamber  of 
the  skull,  the  pressure  of  a  tumour  [on  the  brain  tissue], 
the  ploughing-up  of  the  brain-tissue  by  a  clot,  change  in  the 
composition  of  the  blood  [circulating  in  the  brain],'  etc. 

(2)  Indirect  Stresses. 

(a)  Internal.  —  'Puberty,  pregnancy,  ulcer  of  stomach,  tu- 
berculosis of  lung,'  etc. 


§  n 6.    The  Chief  Forms  of  Insanity        281 

(£)  External.  — '  Adverse  circumstances,  worries,  anxieties, 
troubles  of  various  kinds.' 

§  1 1 6.    The  Chief  Forms  of  Insanity.  —  No  two  cases  insanity 
of  insanity  are  precisely  alike,  just  as  no  two  normal  ^tailed 
minds   are   precisely  alike.     Hence  any  scheme  or  study- 
classification  of  the  typical  forms  of  insanity  must 
be  a  very  rough  and  approximate  affair;  it  will  be 
useful  to  the  psychologist  merely  as  furnishing   a 
sketch-map    of    a    complicated    and    little    explored 
region,   and   to   the   alienist  merely  as   affording   a 
means  of  pigeon-holing  cases  that  are  more  or  less 
similar.     Accurate  and  scientific  knowledge  of  the 
insane  mind  can  come  only  by  way  of  the  detailed 
study  of  individual  cases. 

For  our  present  purpose  it  will  suffice  to  give  a 
'  working '  list  of  the  forms  of  insanity.  The  reader 
should  be  warned  that  the  use  of  terms  differs  con- 
siderably in  different  authorities. 

L    Insanity  as  Imperfect  Development.  The  chief 

Under  this  head  come  the  cases  which  rise,  progressively,   forms  of 
from  weak-mindedness  through  imbecility  to  idiocy.     The 
idiot  must  be  constantly  looked  after,  as  if  he  were  a  little  / 

child ;  he  cannot  learn  to  adjust  himself  to  his  surround- 
ings. "  If  left  by  himself  he  will  set  himself  on  fire,  or 
fall  into  the  water,  or  cut  himself,  or  get  entangled  in  a 
machine,  or  come  to  some  actual  physical  harm  which  could 
have  been  avoided  by  the  exercise  of  rudimentary  intelli- 
gence" (Mercier).  The  imbecile  can  do  'odd  jobs,'  but  is 
unable  to  plan  or  perform  continuous  work. 
II  Insanity  as  Misdirected  Development  and  Degeneration. 

Under  this  head  come  the  typical  cases  of  insanity  that 
are  found  in  asylums  :  mania,  melancholia,  dementia,  gen- 
eral paresis. 

(i)  Mania  is  marked  by  mental  exaltation;  the  maniac  is 
restless,  excitable,  voluble,  enthusiastic.    It  culminates 


282  Abnormal  Psychology 

in  acute  delirium.  Certain  stages  are  characterised 
by  delusions  of  grandeur. 

(2)  Melancholia  is  marked  by  mental  depression ;  the  mel- 

ancholiac  is  inert,  despondent,  incapable  of  exertion, 
possessed  by  the  idea  of  his  sorrows.  It  culminates 
in  stuporous  melancholia.  Certain  stages  are  char- 
acterised by  delusions  of  persecution,  etc. 

(3)  Dementia  is  marked  by  a   mental  enfeeblement ;    the 

dement  is  stupid,  apathetic,  helpless.  It  may  appear 
as  the  direct  result  of  stress  (primary  dementia)  or  as 
a  consequence  of  mania  or  melancholia  (terminal 
dementia). 

(4)  General  paresis,  or  progressive  paralytic  dementia,  begins 

very  much  as  alcoholic  intoxication  begins :  with  im- 
pairment of  memory,  quick  changes  of  mood,  exalta- 
tion of  mind,  hesitancy  of  speech,  loss  of  facial  expres- 
sion. Then  come  delusions  of  grandeur,  maniacal 
fits,  unruffled  self-satisfaction ;  and,  on  the  motor 
side,  laboured  and  interrupted  speech,  scratchy  hand- 
writing, staggering  gait.  Finally,  the  patient  becomes 
bedridden ;  he  cannot  turn  himself,  and  can  hardly 
swallow;  mentality  seems  to  cease  altogether. — General 
paresis  thus  shows  a  gradual  decay  of  the  whole  nervous 
system,  from  above  downwards. 

A  form  of  mania  that  is  peculiarly  dangerous  to  the 
community  is  epileptic  mania.  The  patient  is  liable  to 
violent  maniacal  outbursts  between  the  epileptic  fits. 

The  name  of  paranoia  or  delusional  insanity  is  some- 
times used  for  cases  in  which  there  are  systematised 
delusions  of  grandeur  or  persecution,  but  no  further  im- 
pairment of  mental  function.  These  cases  fall  under  the 
general  heads  of  mania  and  melancholia. 

Circular  insanity  is  a  form  of  insanity  in  which  mania 
alternates  with  melancholia,  with  or  without  the  interposi- 
tion of  periods  of  sanity. 

The  study  of  Such  a  list  as  this  is  very  far  from  being  psycho- 
logically satisfactory  ;  it  is  hardly  more  than  a  table 
of  contents,  with  all  the  reading  to  follow.  The 
facts  studied  in  abnormal  psychology  are  matters 


§  1 16.    The  Chief  Forms  of  Insanity        283 

of  detail ;  the  progressive  impairment  of  speech,  of 
handwriting,  etc. ;  the  advance  of  a  particular  de- 
lusion ;  the  gradual  fall  from  a  higher  mental  level 
to  a  lower  as  shown  by  defects  of  recognition,  mem- 
ory, judgment,  etc. ;  the  phenomena  of  substitution 
(the  recovery  of  a  lost  function  by  the  use  of  parts 
of  the  brain  which  are  normally  employed  in  other 
directions),  and  so  forth. 

Let  us  take  as  an  example  the  case  of  what  is  called  aphasia,   Aphasia, 
loss  of  language.     Aphasia  may  be  produced  under  various  con- 
ditions, and  show  itself  in  various  ways.     Three  principal  forms 
have  been  distinguished. 

(1)  Sensory  or  Amnesic  Aphasia.  —  The   patient  can   see 
printed  or  written  words,  but  cannot  understand,  i.e.,  assimilate 
them ;  he  is  in  the  state  of  a  child,  before  it  has  learned  to  read. 
He  can,  however,  write  from  dictation ;   he  can  even  write  out 
his  own  ideas :  but  in  neither  case  does  he  understand  what  he 
has  written.     This  is  word-blindness. 

Or  again :  the  patient  can  hear  words,  but  cannot  understand 
them ;  he  is  in  the  state  of  a  child,  before  it  has  learned  to 
understand  what  is  said  in  its  presence.  There  is  this  difference, 
however :  the  patient  can  read,  can  speak  and  can  write ;  the 
only  thing  that  fails  him  is  the  assimilation  of  heard  words. 
This  is  word-deafness. 

(2)  Motor  or  Ataxic  Aphasia.  —  The  patient  can  understand 
written  or  spoken  words,  but  cannot  articulate.      This  is  pure 
motor  aphasia. 

Or  again  :  he  can  understand,  and  can  articulate ;  but  cannot 
write  what  he  wishes  to  write.  This  is  agraphia. 

(3)  Sensori-motor  Aphasia  or  Paraphasia.  —  The  patient  can 
understand  what  he  sees  and  hears,  and  has  the  power  to  write 
and  to  articulate,  but  has  '  forgotten  how '  to  use  voice  and  hand. 
His  spoken  and  written  signs,  therefore,  do  not  correspond  to 
his  ideas.     Wishing  to  say :  "  Take  that  light  out  of  my  eyes!" 
he  says  :  "  Clean  my  boots  by  walking  on  them! "  —  and  so  on. 

This  classification  is  by  no  means  complete ;  Dr.  Bateman,  in 
his  book  "  On  Aphasia  or  Loss  of  Speech,"  distinguishes  no  less 
than  fifteen  varieties  of  aphasia.  It  may  be  chronic  or  intermit- 


284  Abnormal  Psychology 

tent ;  the  loss  may  be  loss  of  substantives,  or  of  proper  names 
or  of  a  few  words,  or  of  certain  letters ;  one  word  may  be  substi 
tuted  for  another ;  a  particular  phrase  or  series  of  syllables  may 
be  used  on  all  occasions  in  all  meanings ;  the  patient  may  b» 
unable  to  name  an  object  unless  he  can  trace  the  outline  of  the 
written  word  with  his  finger  or  foot  or  tongue ;  objective  speech 
may  be  lost,  but  subjective  speech  (oaths  and  interjections :  §  88) 
remain ;  etc.,  etc. 

It  is  clear  that  the  detailed  study  of  single  cases  of  aphasia 
may  throw  light  upon  the  mechanism  of  thought  and  of  the  asso- 
ciation of  ideas  in  the  normal  mind,  —  especially  if  the  results  of 
psychopathological  observation  be  compared  with  those  of  brain 
physiology  (Flechsig's  scheme  of  the  cortical  centres). 

Questions  and  Exercises 

(1)  On  waking  from  a  visual  dream,  keep  your  eyes  closed, 
and  scrutinise  the  dots  and  splashes  of  colour  that  are  sprinkled 
over  the  dark  field.     You  will  find  that  they  correspond  roughly 
in  form  and  arrangement   to   the   figures  of  the  dream-scene. 
What  does  this  prove  ? 

(2)  Write  out  a  vivid  dream,  while  it  is  fresh  in  your  memory. 
Then  work  it  over,  and  try  to  account  for  the  sequence  of  ideas 
by  the  law  of  association. 

(3)  Watch  your  dreams  for  a  week,  and  note  whether  they  are 
all  visual,  or  whether  sounds,  etc.,  occur  in  them.     During  the 
following  week,  fix  your  attention  steadily,  before  you  go  to  sleep, 
upon  a  certain  sound,  taste,  smell,  etc. ;  and  note  whether  sounds, 
tastes,  smells,  etc.,  occur  afterwards  among  the  dream-ideas. 

(4)  The  most  general  way  in  which  mental  derangement  shows 
itself  is  in  'defective  concentration  of  the  attention'  (Wundt). 
Apply  this  rule  to  the  various  forms  of  insanity  described  in 
§  116.     Draw  diagrams  of  the  typical  insane  consciousnesses, 
after  the  pattern  of  Figs.  10  and  19. 

(5)  'What  strikes  one  most,  on  going  through  an  asylum  for 
the  first  time,  is  the  wonderfully  little  difference,  whether  in  looks 
or  in  conduct,  that  there  is  between  the  insane  and  the  sane.' 
How  is  this  possible  ? 

(6)  How  do  you  explain  the  fact  that  certain   butterflies, 
spiders,  etc.,  '  sham  dead '  when  taken  in  the  hand  ?    And  the 
similar  fact  that  birds  are  'fascinated'  by  snakes? 


Questions  and  Exercises  285 

(7)  What  period  of  life  may  be  said  to  show  a  '  normal  mania1 
and  what  a  '  normal  dementia  '  ? 

(8)  What  could  a  psychologist  gain  from  an  investigation  of 
the  expressive  movements  of  deaf-mutes?     (Cf.  §  88.) 

(9)  For  the  most  part,  '  dreams  are  easily  forgotten.'     Yet 
some  dreams  are  remembered,  and  remembered  for  a  long  time. 
Under  what  conditions  does  this  happen  ? 

References 

fames,  Textbook,  chs.  viii.,  xii.,  xviii.  (p.  301),  xix.  (pp.  308-310), 

xxiii. 

C.  Mercier,  Sanity  and  Insanity,  1890. 
A.  Moll,  Hypnotism,  1891. 

Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  II.,  ch.  xix. ;  and  see  refs.  in  Index. 
Wundt,  Lectures,  pp.  316-322,  Lect.  XXII. 
Wundt,  Outlines,  §  18. 
J.  Wyllie,  The  Disorders  of  Speech,  1894. 


The  various 
psychologies. 


Our  own 
mind  the 
standard  of 
reference. 


CHAPTER   XV 
THE  PROVINCE  AND  THE  RELATIONS  OF  PSYCHOLOGY 

§  117.  The  Scope  of  Psychology.  —  When  we  stated 
the  problem  of  psychology,  in  §  9,  we  said  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  treat  of  all  the  questions  that 
confront  the  psychologist  within  the  limits  of  a  sin- 
gle volume  (cf.  §  115).  And  the  first  thirteen  Chap- 
ters of  this  book  have  been  confined  to  one  special 
set  of  psychological  problems :  the  problems  of  nor- 
mal, adult,  human,  individual  psychology.  In  the 
last  Chapter  we  have  seen  that  over  against  normal 
psychology  there  stands  a  psychology  of  the  abnor- 
mal mind,  the  facts  of  which  must  be  explained  in 
the  light  of  the  normal  consciousness  (cf.  the  ex- 
planation of  hypnosis),  while  they,  in  turn,  throw 
light  on  certain  complicated  phases  of  the  normal 
mental  life  (cf.  the  facts  of  aphasia).  The  same 
thing  holds  of  the  other  aspects  of  the  psychology 
which  we  have  reviewed.  Over  against  adult  psy- 
chology stand  the  psychologies  of  childhood  and  old 
age ;  over  against  human  stands  animal  psychology ; 
and  over  against  individual  stands  ethnic  psychology 

('/  §§6,9> 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  all  these 
branches  of  psychology  are  equally  independent,  or 
equally  far  advance^.  In  the  first  place,  no  one  of 
them  can  be  pursued  successfully  unless  the  student 
have  a  knowledge  of  the  psychology  with  which  this 

286 


§  1 1 7.    The  Scope  of  Psychology  287 

book  has  mainly  dealt.  The  normal  mind  of  the 
civilised  man  is  the  standard  of  reference  in  all 
psychology.  We  can  explain  the  minds  of  children, 
animals,  societies,  only  by  comparing  what  we  know 
of  them  with  the  corresponding  facts  of  the  stand- 
ard mind.  This  truth  cannot  be  too  strongly  em- 
phasised :  psychological  study  must  begin  as  the 
study  of  the  normal  adult  mind  by  the  method  of 
experimental  introspection.  To  enter  upon  child 
study,  e.g.,  without  any  such  preparation,  is  to  set 
about  surveying  a  plot  of  ground  before  one  has  a 
unit  of  measurement. 

Secondly,  we  know  very  much  more  about  the  nor-  Scientific 
mal  adult  mind  than  about  the  minds  of  the  insane,  F 
or  of  children  and  animals.  This  is  natural :  the  only 
mind  that  a  psychologist  can  observe  directly  is  his 
own,  a  normal  adult  mind ;  all  other  minds  must  be 
observed  indirectly,  and  (as  has  just  been  said)  ex- 
plained in  the  light  of  the  standard  mind.  So  it  hap- 
pens that  these  side  departments  of  psychology  have 
as  yet  been  less  thoroughly  explored.  Abnormal 
psychology  has,  undoubtedly,  made  most  progress. 
Animal  psychology  is  little  more,  at  present,  than 
a  method  and  a  string  of  facts.  Child  psychology 
and  ethnic  psychology  consist  of  observations,  new- 
made  or  gleaned  from  history,  which  are  brought 
with  more  or  less  of  probability  under  the  accepted 
laws  of  biological  evolution.  '  Scientific  '  psychology 
is,  therefore,  normal  adult  psychology;  the  other 
psychologies  promise  to  be  sciences,  possess  the  ma- 
terials out  of  which  sciences  may  be  formed,  but  have 
not  so  far  attained  to  scientific  rank. 


288         Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 

The  reader  will  now  understand  how  it  is  that  a  work 
dealing  with  the  normal  adult  mind  can  be  termed  a  work 
on  '  psychology,'  without  qualification.  This  psychology  is 
the  psychology,  scientific  and  standard  psychology.  The 
other  psychologies  must  be  marked  off  from  it  by  adjec- 
tives as  '  ethnic,'  '  senile,'  etc.,  psychology. 

TWO  §   1 1 8.    Child  Psychology. — The  literature  of  child 

of  cMd"  psychology  may  be  roughly  divided  into  two  parts, 
psychology.  Qn  the  one  hand  we  have  records  of  the  mental 
development  of  particular  children ;  records  which 
begin  with  birth,  and  are  continued  for  months  or 
years.  On  the  other,  we  have  statistical  enquiries 
into  the  memory,  imagination,  etc.,  of  school  chil- 
dren, taken  in  classes  and  arranged  in  groups  accord- 
ing to  age  and  sex.  In  some  cases,  the  material 
obtained  is  turned  by  the  author  to  genetic  account : 
that  is,  an  attempt  is  made  to  trace  the  development 
of  mind,  the  growing  complexity  of  mental  pro- 
cesses, and,  perhaps,  to  parallel  it  with  the  fully 
formed  mind  of  the  animal  or  the  savage,  or  correlate 
it  with  the  increasing  complexity  of  the  bodily  func- 
tions during  the  same  period  of  life. 

Child  records  of  the  first  sort  seem  to  begin  with  the  Swiss 
educator,  J.  H.  Pestalozzi  (1746-1827),  who  kept  a  journal  of  the 
sayings  and  doings  of  his  son  from  about  the  fourth  year  on. 
Charles  Darwin  published  in  1877  his  "Biographical  Sketch  of 
an  Infant"  (Mind,  vol.  II.),  which  he  had  written  down  in  1840. 
It  contains  minute  observations  of  the  conduct  of  one  of  the 
writer's  sons,  and  especially  of  the  movements  that  expressed  the 
child's  emotions,  from  birth  up  to  the  middle  of  the  third  year. 
Several  similar  records  have  now  been  published,  as  well  as  ob- 
servations of  a  more  limited  character  (on  the  development  of 
children's  drawings,  the  growth  of  colour-discrimination,  etc.). 

Child  studies  of  the  second  kind  include  enquiries  into  the 
contents  of  a  child's  mind,  t.e.,  its  stock  of  ideas  and  beliefs,  on 


§  1 1 8.    Child  Psychology  289 

entering  school ;  into  the  mental  fatigue  brought  on  by  school 
work ;  into  the  child's  ability  to  recognise  tones,  to  estimate  and 
remember  the  length  of  lines,  etc. ;  into  the  instinctive  fears  of 
childhood;  into  the  development  of  language  and  the  appear- 
ance of  self-consciousness  in  children  ;  into  children's  lies  ;  into 
the  range  of  the  childish  imagination,  etc. 

Mental  fatigue,  e.g.,  has  been  investigated  in  five  ways.  Investigation 
(i)  Arithmetical  Method.  The  children  are  required  to  solve  of  fatigue 
simple  arithmetical  problems,  at  the  beginning  of  the  morning  school  hours, 
and  at  the  end  of  each  school  hour.  The  solutions  handed  in 
at  the  different  times  are  compared  with  regard  to  quickness  and 
accuracy  of  work.  (2)  Memory  Method.  Series  of  words  are 
read  aloud  by  the  teacher,  at  similar  intervals,  and  written  down 
by  the  children  from  memory.  (3)  Riddle  Method.  Printed  pages 
of  simple  narrative  are  prepared,  with  words  and  syllables  omitted 
here  and  there.  The  children  are  required  to  fill  out  the  blank 
spaces,  according  to  the  sense  of  the  narrative.  (4)  Method  of 
'Cutaneous  Space  Perception.  The  experiment  described  as  no.  6, 
p.  118,  is  performed  at  intervals,  and  the  results  of  the  trials 
compared.  (5)  Ergographic  Method.  Finger  movements  are 
repeated  (and  recorded)  until  muscular  exhaustion  sets  in.  Fa- 
tigue of  the  voluntary  muscles  is  thus  made  an  index  of  mental 
fatigue. 

Some  part  of  this  literature  has  the  true  scientific  TWO  deside- 
flavour;  much  more  of  it  is  useful,  as  crude  psy-  ps^ 
chological  material  ;  much,  however,  is  scientifically 
worthless,  owing  to  the  observer's  lack  of  psycho- 
logical training.  Two  things  are  now  wanted  in 
child  psychology :  first,  many  more  detailed  studies 
of  individual  children,  from  birth  onwards ;  and, 
secondly,  a  thorough  study  of  the  child  mind  from 
above  downwards,  —  i.e.,  from  the  youth  of,  say, 
sixteen  down  to  the  infant.  We  do  not  know  at 
what  age  introspection  becomes  possible :  but  it  is 
certainly  possible  at  sixteen.  Working  from  that 
age  downwards,  we  should  pass  through  all  stages: 


290         Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 


Child  and 

adult 

psychology. 


from  an  introspection  that  is  adequate  to  any  mental 
process,  however  complex,  to  an  introspection  that 
can  cope  only  with  the  simpler  associations  and 
perceptions ;  and  from  this,  again,  to  total  lack  of 
introspection,  —  to  the  stage  at  which  reliance  must 
be  placed  upon  the  observer's  interpretation  of  the 
movements  that  express  feeling  and  idea,  and  no 
assistance  at  all  can  be  obtained  from  the  subject. 

Something  of  value  for  child  psychology  may  be  gained, 
perhaps,  from  the  study  of  reminiscent  autobiographies 
(J.  S.  Mill,  Tolstoi,  Loti)  and  of  artistic  interpretations  of 
childhood  (Pater,  Dickens,  Goethe).  But  it  is  very  diffi- 
cult, in  such  cases,  to  distinguish  the  Wahrheit  from  the 
Dichtung. 

How  far  child  psychology  will  be  able  to  repay  its 
debt  to  standard  psychology,  —  how  much  a  know- 
ledge of  it  will  eventually  contribute  towards  the 
understanding  of  the  adult  mind,  —  cannot  be  cer- 
tainly predicted.  But  the  genetic  method  has  proved 
fruitful  in  many  departments  of  scientific  enquiry ; 
and  as  psychology  is  now  a  science,  and  each  and 
every  division  of  it  may  be  approached  by  scientific 
methods,  we  are  apparently  justified  in  expecting  that 
the  study  of  the  child  consciousness  will,  sooner  or 
later,  yield  results  of  high  psychological  value.  In- 
deed, such  a  belief  is  almost  forced  upon  us,  when  we 
remember  that  the  child  mind  is  the  direct  precursor 
of  the  adult  mind,  the  one  passing  into  the  other  in 
an  unbroken  continuity  of  mental  experience. 

The  old  §  1 19.  Animal  Psychology.  —  "  The  question  whether 

chok>gyPS>      or  not  tne  animals  possess  a  mind,"  wrote  a  philoso- 
pher of  eminence  in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 


§  119.    Animal  Psychology  291 

century,  "is  a  question  of  no  particular  importance: 
I  shall  not  dispute  it,  but  leave  the  reader  undisturbed 
in  his  own  opinion."  While  the  professional  psy- 
chologists gave  small  attention  to  the  matter,  however, 
anecdotes  of  animal  intelligence  were  industriously  col- 
lected by  the  laity,  —  by  amateur  students  of  natural 
history  and  by  the  possessors  of  pet  animals.  To  these 
collections  the  modern  psychologist  has  fallen  heir; 
but  the  inaccuracy  of  the  observations,  and  the  inter- 
mingling of  fact  with  popular  psychology  which  char- 
acterises them,  render  the  legacy  well-nigh  valueless. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  now  good  hope  that  and  the  ne* 
animal  psychology,  learning  the  lesson  of  scientific 
caution  from  current  investigation  of  the  human 
mind,  will  gradually  raise  itself  to  the  dignity  of  a 
science.  The  importance  of  the  study,  in  view  of 
the  general  doctrine  of  evolution,  is  very  great,  and 
many  workers  have  recently  been  attracted  to  it. 
Two  results  have  followed. 

(1)  It  is  being  recognised  that  animal  psychology  Modem 
must  be  built  up  from  detailed  enquiries,  not  from 

a  survey  of  the  whole  field  of  'instinct'  or  'intelli- 
gence ' ;  that  the  work  must  be  done  under  the  con- 
ditions natural  to  the  animal ;  and  that  the  separate 
facts  must  be  impartially  recorded,  without  any  pre- 
conceived theories  of  their  meaning.  Thus  we  have 
monographs  dealing  with  the  actions  of  single-celled 
organisms  (§  74),  with  the  behaviour  of  newly  hatched 
birds  and  new-born  mammals,  with  the  movements 
that  express  emotion  (p.  16  sup.')  and  impulse  in  ani 
mals,  etc.  All  this  is  good  material. 

(2)  Along  with  the  change  in  method  of  observa-  method. 


292         Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 

tion  has  come  a  change  in  method  of  interpretation. 
The  actions  of  animals  must  be  interpreted  in  the 
light  of  human  actions,  by  reference  to  human  psy- 
chology ;  and  every  action  must  be  interpreted  as 
simply  as  possible.  Nothing  must  be  taken  as  evi- 
dence of  judgment  which  can  in  any  way  be  explained 
by  association  of  ideas ;  nothing  ascribed  to  active 
imagination  which  can  be  accounted  for  by  passive. 
This  is  a  sound  method,  and  has  already  borne  fruit. 
Among  other  things,  it  has  given  us  a  more  correct 
appreciation  of  the  phenomena  of  instinct  (\  75)  than 
was  possible  for  the  older  psychology. 

It  may  seem,  at  first  sight,  that  the  method  is  unfair; 
that  the  animal  should  have  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  in 
cases  where  an  action  is  observed  whose  motive,  in  man, 
might  be  either  judgment-impulse  or  simple  impulse.  The 
supposed  unfairness  disappears,  however,  when  we  look  at 
a  test  case,  like  that  of  articulate  speech.  If  the  higher 
animals,  despite  their  power  of  articulation,  have  never 
developed  a  spoken  language,  that  must  be  because  they 
have  nothing  to  say ;  and  if  they  have  nothing  to  say,  their 
minds  are  on  an  altogether  lower  level  than  ours.  Hence, 
on  the  assumption  that  the  animal  and  the  human  mind 
represent  different  phases  of  the  same  course  of  evolution, 
it  is  entirely  reasonable  to  believe  that  the  former  '  works ' 
in  the  simplest  possible  way.  The  belief  is  confirmed,  if 
confirmation  is  necessary,  by  the  fact  (insisted  on  in  Ch. 
XL)  that  men,  who  can  think,  rarely  do  so  ;  they  take  mental 
short  cuts,  borrowed  associations,  whenever  they  find  them 
to  hand.  But  if  we  shun  mental  effort,  all  the  more  do  the 
animals  avoid  it. 

Processes  of        §  1 2O.   Ethnic  Psychology.  —  Ethnic  psychology  is 
^collective  the  psychology  of  a  <  collective '   mind,  i.e.,  of  the 

mental  processes  that  are  set  up  by  the  communion 


§  I2O.    Ethnic  Psychology  293 

of  individual  minds;  the  psychology  of  a  race  or 
society  or  professional  class,  as  distinguished  from 
the  psychology  of  the  individual,  child  or  man.  It 
need  hardly  be  said  that  the  elementary  processes 
of  the  individual  and  collective  minds  are  the  same : 
the  collective  mind  has  no  existence  apart  from  the 
rands  of  the  separate  members  of  the  community. 
But  when  many  individual  minds  come  into  contact, 
new  complex  processes  take  shape ;  the  elementary 
processes  are  put  together  as  they  would  not  have 
been  had  mankind  lived  solitary  lives. 

The  problem  of  ethnic  psychology,  then,  is  to  The  problem 
trace  the  development  of  these  new  mental  com-  psychology, 
plexes,  and  to  explain  them  by  reference  to  the 
conditions  of  social  living.  A  good  deal  has  been 
done  towards  the  solution  of  this  problem  :  scattered 
discussions  will  be  found  in  works  upon  history,  an- 
thropology, jurisprudence,  philology  and  aesthetics, 
as  well  as  in  the  psychologies.  It  cannot  be  said, 
however,  that  ethnic  psychology  exists  to-day  as  a 
science ;  there  is  no  special  group  of  books  devoted 
exclusively  to  it,  as  there  is,  e.g.,  to  mental  pathology, 
child  psychology  and  animal  psychology. 

Ethnic    psychology  has  four   main  divisions.      It 
has  to  deal  (i)  with   the  growth  of  language.     We   Language, 
have  already  spoken  of  the  importance  of  language 
to  psychology  in    §  88,  which    thus  anticipates   the 
present  Section.    It  has  to  deal  (2)  with  the  develop- 
ment of  myth.     The  primitive  myth,  the  story  told  of  Myth, 
gods  made  in  the  image  of  man,  is  the  germ  both  of 
religion  and  of  science.     Myth  also  afforded  mate- 
rial for  art. 


294        Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 

Anthropo-  Primitive  man  looked  upon  his  surroundings  from  a  purely 

morphism  of   human  standpoint ;  that  is,  he  made  men  of  all  the  objects 

primitive  r  _  _  J 

man.  around  him.     If  a  stone  tripped  him,  it  was  an  enemy  that 

lay  in  wait  for  him  in  the  shape  of  a  stone ;  if  a  bough 
struck  him,  the  enemy  had  taken  the  form  of  a  tree  to  sur- 
prise him.  The  gods  were  simply  men  of  more  than  human 
power.  Sometimes  they  were  dead  chiefs,  haunting  the 
places  that  they  frequented  during  life,  and  revealing  their 
will  in  dreams  ;  sometimes  they  were  embodied  in  the  vari- 
ous phenomena  of  nature,  the  storm-cloud,  the  wind,  the 
sun,  etc.  Only  by  very  slow  degrees  was  the  knowledge 
attained  that  the  course  of  nature  is  not  capricious  but 
uniform  ;  that  there  are  laws  of  natural  events.  And  not 
till  this  knowledge  had  been  acquired  was  any  separation 
made  between  natural  science  and  religion. 

The  deeds  of  the  gods  and  of  the  descendants  of  the 
gods,  the  heroes,  were  celebrated  in  poetry  and  in  drama 
(or  rather  in  a  primitive  mixture  of  these  two  forms  of  art) 
at  a  very  early  period.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  not  probable 
(as  we  shall  see)  that  art  arose  out  of  myth. 

Custom.  Ethnic  psychology  has  to  deal  (3)  with  the  devel- 

opment of  custom.  Primitive  custom  —  the  customs 
of  burial  and  marriage,  the  ceremonies  connected 
with  tillage  and  harvesting,  etc.  —  is  the  root  of  cus* 
torn  proper,  of  law  and  of  morals.  The  customs  of 
modern  society  are  partly  useful  actions  (e.g.,  the 
eating  of  meals  at  fixed  hours),  partly  survivals  of 
older  modes  of  thought  and  conduct,  which  persist 
merely  because  there  is  no  imperative  reason  for 
giving  them  up  (e.g.,  the  wearing  of  finger  rings). 
Law  is  custom  regulated  by  the  state  for  the  welfare 
of  the  majority  of  its  members.  Morality  is  cus- 
tom regulated  by  'public  opinion,'  by  the  approval 
and  disapproval  of  the  community.  The  spheres  of 


§  i2O.  Relation  of  Psychology  to  Ethics  and  Logic  295 

law,  religion  and  morals  naturally  overlap  to  a  con- 
siderable extent  in  all  forms  of  society. 

Lastly,  (4)  ethnic  psychology  has  to  deal  with  the  Art 
growth  of  art,  regarded  as  the  play  of  the  adult  (§  100). 
Some  psychologists  regard  the  aesthetic  as  a  sub-form 
of  the  religious  sentiment,  and  would  therefore  derive 
art  from  myth.  The  question  cannot  at  present  be 
decided ;  but  it  seems  probable  that  art  is  as  distinct 
from  myth  as  myth  is  from  custom. 

The  farther  back  we  go  in  the  history  of  humanity,  the 
more  difficult  does  it  become  to  separate  the  products  of 
the  collective  mind,  —  to  say :  this  belongs  to  mythology, 
this  to  aesthetics,  this  to  morals,  this  to  custom.  The 
primitive  social  mind,  like  the  primitive  individual  mind 
(§  48),  is  a  one-tissue  mind;  differentiation  means  a  rela- 
tively high  stage  of  development. 

In  the  case  of  art  the  difficulty  is  unusually  great,  owing  The  origin  of 
to  the  variety  of  purposes  which  the  aesthetic  sentiment  has  l 

*  sentiment. 

been  made  to  serve  (courtship,  religion,  play).  It  has  been 
suggested  that  that  is  beautiful,  to  primitive  man,  which  he 
regards  as  expressing  a  pleasurable  emotion.  We  must 
remember  that  anything  (a  tree,  a  weapon)  might  be  thus 
regarded ;  for  everything  was  interpreted  after  the  human 
pattern.  The  beautiful  woman  was,  then,  the  woman  who 
expressed  pleasure  in  the  man's  bodily  adornment,  the 
woman  in  whose  face  he  read  the  reflection  of  his  own 
pride  ;  the  beautiful  landscape  was  the  '  smiling '  landscape  ; 
the  beautiful  jar  or  bow  was  that  in  whose  look  or  action  the 
mechanic  refound  his  own  self-satisfied  pleasure ;  and  so  on. 
The  theory  is  plausible  :  it  is  as  yet  very  far  from  proved. 

§  1 2 1.  The  Relation  of  Psychology  to  Ethics  and  Logic. 
—  Ethics  is  the  science  of  conduct.  Its  problem  is 
stated  by  Herbert  Spencer  in  the  following  words : 

"  I  conceive  it  to  be  the  business  of  Moral  Science  to  deduce, 


296        Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 


of  ethics. 


The  problem  from  the  laws  of  life  and  the  conditions  of  existence,  what  kinds 
of  action  necessarily  tend  to  produce  happiness,  and  what  kinds 
to  produce  unhappiness.  Having  done  this,  its  deductions  are 
to  be  recognised  as  laws  of  conduct." 

Now  it  is  clear  that  we  cannot  know  '  the  laws  of 
life  and  the  conditions  of  existence '  in  any  other 
way  than  by  a  historical  study  of  human  society,  by 
careful  observation  of  the  course  of  human  evolution. 
The  laws  of  life  must  be  generalisations  from  the 
facts  of  life ;  the  conditions  of  existence  must  be 
ascertained  from  the  actual  ups  and  downs  of  exist- 
ence at  different  periods.  Or,  to  put  the  same  thing 
in  another  way :  rules  of  conduct  can  be  laid  down 
only  after  conduct  itself,  in  all  its  phases  and  stages, 
has  been  described  and  explained. 

The  necessary  preliminary  to  ethics,  then,  is  the 
study  of  society:  as  Professor  Wundt  writes,  "the 
straight  road  to  ethics  lies  through  ethnic  psychol- 
ogy." Ethnic  psychology  is  the  connecting  link 
between  the  sciences  of  mind  and  of  morals.  On 
the  one  hand,  its  facts  must  be  interpreted  in  the 
light  of  individual  psychology  (§  n/);  on  the  other, 
the  facts  as  thus  interpreted  are  the  material  from 
which  the  moralist  abstracts  those  general  principles 
of  living  whose  consequences  are  to  be  taken  as  rules 
or  norms  of  conduct.  Psychology  is  the  foundation 
of  ethics  ;  and  not  a  few  old-time  ethical  controver- 
sies are  settled,  once  and  for  all,  by  appeal  to  it. 


Ethics  and 
ethnic  psy- 
chology. 


The  province 
of  logic. 


Logic  is  sometimes  defined  as  the  *  science  of 
thought.'  A  better  definition  would  be  'science  of 
the  meaning  or  validity  (soundness,  justness,  well- 
groundedness)  of  thought.' 


§  121.  Relation  of  Psychology  to  EtJiics  and  Logic  297 

We  have  seen  that  every  perception  and  idea 
means  something.  The  elementary  processes  are 
put  together  at  the  bidding  of  nature  (§  38);  and  to 
say  that  nature  lays  constraint  upon  mind  is  to  give 
the  biological  account  of  the  fact  which  the  psycholo- 
gist expresses  by  saying  that  mental  processes  'mean.' 
What  is  'meaning'  in  psychology  is  simply  'forma- 
tion under  stress  of  natural  environment '  in  biology. 
Psychology  has  to  do,  of  course,  with  all  the  aspects 
of  mind  :  the  concrete  mental  processes  which  form 
the  objects  of  psychological  enquiry  are  groups-of -ele- 
mentary-processes-that-mean. Logic,  now,  abstracts  Psychology 
from  the  processes  that  compose  the  perception  or  and  loglc* 
idea  or  judgment,  and  looks  exclusively  at  the  mean- 
ing-side of  the  complex.  It  does  not  care  whether 
thought  go  on  in  terms  of  sight  or  hearing  or  touch ; 
it  is  concerned  only  to  discover  whether  the  thought 
is  valid,  justified  under  all  sorts  and  kinds  of  environ- 
mental conditions.  It  thus  proceeds  '  formally '  or 
symbolically,  like  a  sort  of  algebra ;  and,  when  it  has 
gone  so  far  as  to  formulate  the  laws  of  valid  think- 
ing, deduces  from  them  rules  or  norms  of  scientific 
thought  and  procedure,  —  as  ethics  deduces  norms 
of  conduct  from  the  'laws  of  life.' 

The  relation  of  psychology  to  logic,  then,  is  two- 
fold. On  the  one  hand,  logic  arises  by  way  of 
abstraction  from  psychology ;  a  single  aspect  of 
the  total  psychological  fact  is  made  the  basis  of  a 
special  science.  On  the  other  hand,  psychological 
investigation  falls  under  the  sway  of  logic ;  unless 
the  method  of  psychology  is  logical,  its  results  will 
be  invalid. 


298         Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 


The  problem 
of  pedagogy. 


'  Normative ' 
disciplines. 


Child  psy- 
chology and 
pedagogy. 


§  122.  The  Relation  of  Psychology  to  Pedagogy. — 
The  problem  of  pedagogy  is  to  lay  down  rules  or 
norms  of  education.  Such  rules  may  be  derived  from 
two  sources :  from  the  history  of  education  and  from 
child  study.  The  history  of  education  shows  what 
rules  have  been  successfully,  and  what  unsuccessfully 
followed,  at  different  periods  and  under  various  con- 
ditions ;  child  study  should  show,  in  general  outline, 
the  relation  that  the  child  mind  bears  to  the  adult 
mind,  and  should  therefore  assist  the  adult  educator 
to  deal  with  child  pupils. 

Logic,  ethics  and  pedagogy  have,  then,  this  much  in  com- 
mon, that  all  three  are  normative  disciplines ;  their  task  is 
to  lay  down  rules,  to  prescribe  norms  of  action.  Logic 
has  made  most  progress ;  ethics  is  still  denied  the  name 
of  science  by  some  authors ;  pedagogy  is  only  gradually 
approximating  to  scientific  accuracy. 

Pedagogy  is  sometimes  defined,  in  round  terms, 
as  an  'applied  child  psychology.'  The  definition  is 
incomplete,  since  it  makes  no  reference  to  the  his- 
torical study  of  education.  Even  when  this  omission 
is  supplied,  however,  it  is  liable  to  misunderstanding. 
In  the  first  place,  the  abstract  '  child '  of  psychology 
does  not  exist  for  education :  the  teacher  has  to 
face,  not  'the  child,'  but  real  children,  Katie  Jones 
and  Tommy  Smith.  Psychology  cannot  deal  with 
Jones-ness  and  Smith-ness,  but  only  with  child-ness. 
Science,  indeed,  can  never  be  'applied'  offhand: 
inventors  tell  us  that  no  machine,  however  careful 
its  theoretical  planning  may  have  been,  will  'work' 
upon  its  first  construction  ;  all  sorts  of  unforeseen 
disturbances  occur  when  the  theory  is  translated  into 


§  122.    Relation  of  Psychology  to  Pedagogy     299 

bits  of  metal.  And  if  this  is  true  of  the  inorganic 
world,  it  is  doubly  true  of  the  world  of  mind. 

The  author  of  a  recent  psychological  text-book,  arguing  from 
the  fact  that  attention  is  intermittent  (§  36),  declares  that  "in 
learning  anything  by  heart,  we  learn  best  'by  spurts.'"  Yet 
experiment  has  shown  that  we  learn  best  by  reading  the  passage 
through  steadily,  again  and  again,  from  end  to  end,  as  if  the 
attention  were  continuous!  So  complex  are  the  conditions  that 
determine  a  particular  result,  and  so  difficult  is  it  to  travel  from 
theory  to  application,  even  within  the  limits  of  a  single  science. 

In  the  second  place,  the  teacher  has  to  deal  with  a 
number  of  children  together,  with  a  class.  Now  the 
'abstract'  child  of  psychology  is  an,  individual  child, 
—  just  as  the  abstract  adult  mind  that  we  have  dis- 
cussed in  this  book  is  an  individual  mind.  And  it  is 
impossible  to  pass,  at  one  step,  from  the  individual 
child  of  psychology  to  the  class-room  child  —  the 
'  average  '  or  social  child  —  of  pedagogy. 

We  may,  perhaps,  say  that  child  psychology  stands  to 
education  as  analytical  mechanics  stands  to  carpentering. 
The  more  mechanics  the  carpenter  knows,  the  more  intelli- 
gently will  he  work,  and  the  readier  will  he  be  when  emer- 
gencies arise  and  he  is  called  upon  to  travel  outside  of  his 
routine  employments.  But  he  has  to  translate  his  mechanics 
into  terms  of  wood  (the  abstract  becomes  the  real  child)  ; 
and  his  wood- work  is  limited  by  the  needs  of  house  building 
and  furnishing  (the  child  must  be  taught  in  class).  More- 
over, he  learns  in  the  workshop  tricks  of  his  trade  (history 
of  education)  which  on  ordinary  occasions  are  of  more 
direct  service  to  him  than  his  theoretical  study. 

We  conclude,  then,  that  child  study,  when  it  has  From  theory 

'  to  practice. 

become  a  science,  when,  i.e.,  it  stands  as  the  counter- 
part of  adult  psychology,  and  its  conclusions  tally 
throughout  with  the  results  of  experimental  intro- 


3OO        Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 

spection,  will  constitute  one  of  the  two  sources  from 
which  the  teacher  may  derive  his  norms  of  educa- 
tion; and  the  more  gifted  the  teacher,  the  greater 
will  be  the  benefit  obtained.  The  road  that  leads 
from  theory  to  practice  must  always  be  long  and 
arduous.  But  those  who  are  seeking  to  further  the 
cause  of  education  by  the  way  of  child  study  may 
hold  fast  to  this  hope :  that  just  because  the  road  is 
difficult,  and  just  because  the  end  is  reached  only  by 
the  chosen  few,  the  reformation  when  it  does  come 
will  be  a  reformation  worth  the  accomplishing,  a 
reformation  whose  effects  will  more  than  compensate 
for  the  misdirection  of  energy  that  marks  a  period  of 
unschooled  enthusiasm. 

§  123.  Conclusion.  —  We  took  it  for  granted,  at  the 
outset,  that  psychology  is  a  science.  "  At  the  end  of 
our  enquiry,"  we  said  (§  2),  "we  shall  be  able  to  look 
back  .  . .  and  see  that  psychology,  so  far  as  it  has  gone, 
makes  up  an  orderly  and  systematic  body  of  know- 
ledge." The  enquiry  is  now  ended,  and  the  reader 
must  judge  whether  or  not  this  introductory  state- 
ment was  well  founded.  So  much,  at  any  rate,  he 
will  grant :  that,  if  the  foregoing  Chapters  have  dealt 
adequately  with  mental  problems,  there  is  no  fact  of 
mind,  be  it  mental  process  or  state  of  consciousness, 
that  cannot  be  given  its  place  by  the  side  of  other 
facts,  with  which  it  forms  a  coherent  and  self-consist- 
ent whole,  —  from  which  it  derives  and  to  which  it 
imparts  a  significance  that  could  not  otherwise  be 
attained. 

On  the  other  hand,  our  enquiry  has  been  brief, 


§  123.    Conclusion  301 

and  has  covered  a  wide  field.  While  we  have  indi- 
cated that  psychology  is  not  "a  finished  science; 
that  there  are  yet  many  problems  for  the  psycholo- 
gist to  solve,"  we  have  not  been  able  to  enter  upon 
any  detailed  discussion  of  controverted  issues.  The 
reader  must  turn  for  fuller  treatment  to  larger  and 
more  comprehensive  works :  only  after  an  extended 
study  of  these  will  he  be  able  to  pass  a  valid  judg- 
ment upon  the  position  that  psychology  holds  among 
the  sciences.  He  will  find,  no  doubt,  plenty  of 
'  gossip  and  wrangle  about  opinions  ' ;  he  will  regret 
the  time  and  labour  wasted  in  'contentions  and  bark- 
ing disputations.'  But  he  will  find,  too,  that  the 
foundations  of  psychology  are  based  upon  the  solid 
rock  of  fact ;  that,  while  much  remains  to  be  done, 
much  has  been  accomplished  which  will  never  require 
to  be  done  over  again. 

A  word  of  caution  may  be  added  here.  Students  of 
psychology  are  oftentimes  puzzled  and  discouraged  by  the 
differences  that  they  find  between  what  appear  to  be  equally 
authoritative  text-books.  One  psychologist  speaks  of  the 
method  of  experimental  introspection ;  another  discusses 
experiment,  with  but  scant  reference  to  introspection;  a 
third  emphasises  introspection,  while  he  says  but  little  of 
experiment.  One  book  makes  great  use  of  the  logical 
terms  '  discrimination,'  '  integration,'  '  comparison,'  '  gen- 
eralisation,' etc. ;  another,  as  far  as  possible,  avoids  them. 
One  author  is  never  tired  of  insisting  on  the  '  activity '  of 
mind ;  another  will  hear  nothing  of  activity.  And  so  on. 

Now  it  must  be  remembered,  in  the  first  place,  that 
doubtful  matters  are,  in  the  nature  of  things,  more  dis- 
cussed than  are  matters  of  fact.  If  we  are  all  agreed  about 
something,  we  need  spend  no  words  upon  it;  if  we  dis- 
agree, we  must  give  reasons  for  our  own  belief  and  hear  the 


302         Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 

reasons  offered  by  others  for  the  adoption  of  a  contrary 
view.  Hence,  in  many  cases,  there  is  an  appearance  of 
divergent  opinion,  although  the  contestants  are  in  complete 
harmony  upon  fundamental  points.  The  student  must  learn 
to  distinguish  between  surface-differences  and  differences  of 
principle. 

Secondly,  no  science  is  finished,  complete.  Psychologists 
differ  as  regards  method  :  so  do  physiologists.  Psycholo- 
gists fall  into  two  schools,  according  as  they  do  or  do  not 
recognise  a  mental  '  activity ' :  so  do  physiologists,  accord- 
ing as  they  do  or  do  not  account  for  the  phenomena  of  life 
in  terms  of  physical  and  chemical  laws.  But  physiology  is 
a  science,  whether  an  individual  physiologist  be  a  vivisec- 
tionist  or  an  anti-vivisectionist,  a  '  mechanist '  or  a  '  vitalist.' 
And  psychology  may  be  a  science,  despite  the  similar  dif- 
ferences of  psychological  schools.  To  appreciate  a  psy- 
chological text-book,  you  must  try  to  think  yourself  into 
the  standpoint  of  the  writer,  to  see  how  he  conceived  of 
the  task  before  him,  in  what  guise  the  separate  problems 
presented  themselves  for  solution.  Reading  in  this  spirit 
you  are  able  (i)  to  estimate  the  internal  coherence  of  the 
writer's  system,  to  decide  whether  he  is  self-consistent  or 
self-contradictory,  and  (2)  to  judge  of  its  total  value  as  a 
system,  to  compare  the  new  method  and  the  new  point  of 
view  with  your  own,  and  decide  which  of  the  two  is  the 
more  fruitful  and  the  more  scientific.  There  are  very  few 
books  from  which  something  may  not  be  learned  ;  there  are 
none  which  need  confuse  you,  if  you  approach  them  in  this 
way. 

Thirdly,  however,  there  is  a  much  more  substantial  agree- 
ment in  questions  of  psychology  than  appears  from  the  psy- 
chological text-books.  Psychology  has  but  very  recently 
shaken  itself  free  of  philosophy,  of  metaphysics  ;  and  many 
psychologists  still  think  it  necessary  to  treat  of  metaphysical 
and  psychological  problems  together.  Thus  the  difference 
of  opinion  with  regard  to  mental  activity  is  a  difference  of 
philosophical,  not  of  psychological  belief;  it  is  a  difference 


Questions  and  Exercises  303 

that  can  never  be  resolved  by  psychological  methods.  When, 
therefore,  you  find  disagreement  among  psychologists,  you 
must  ask  yourself  whether  the  point  at 'issue  is  psychological 
or  philosophical.  If  it  is  philosophical,  its  discussion  is 
irrelevant,  and  may  be  ignored  in  your  appreciation  of  the 
psychological  work  of  the  writer. 

Questions  and  Exercises 

(1)  Suppose  that,  wishing  to  trace  the  development  of  a  child's 
mind,  you  kept  records  of  its  use  of  words  and  of  its  progress  in 
drawing.    What  precautions  would  you  take,  to  have  the  records 
clear  of  error  ? 

(2)  Are  there,  in  customs  and  usages  of  the  present  day,  any 
survivals  of  the  anthropomorphic  mythology  of  primitive  man  ? 

(3)  How  can  it  be  that  one  '  learns  by  heart '  better  by  read- 
ing the  passage  through,  again  and  again,  —  i.e.,  by  distributing 
widely  the  repetitions  of  each  part  of  it,  — than  by  committing  to 
memory  a  few  lines  or  words  at  a  time?     Should  the  readings- 
through  be  done  all  at  one  sitting,  or  themselves  distributed  in 
time?    Why? 

(4)  Make  a  Table,  in  the  form  of  a  genealogical  tree,  showing 
the  interrelation  of  the  various  psychologies,  and  the  relation  of 
psychology  as  a  whole  to  ethics,  logic  and  pedagogy. 

(5)  Compare  (i)  the  senile  with  the  child  mind.  (2)  the  mind 
of  the  adult  savage  with  that  of  the  civilised  child,  and  (3)  the 
mind  of  the  adult  savage  with  that  of  the  civilised  man.     Com- 
pare your  present  answer  to  (i)  with  your  answer  to  Question 
(6),  p.  23.     Are  you  now  more  capable  of  introspection  than  you 
were  when  you  began  the  book? 

(6)  What  is  the  original  meaning  of  the  phrase  '  law  of  nature '  ? 
How  has  that  meaning  been  modified? 

(7)  Can  psychology  ever  become  a  normative  science? 

(8)  What  stages  can  you  distinguish  in  a  child's  acquisition  of 
language?     Does  it,  e.g ,  use  substantives  before  it  uses  verbs,  or 
vice  versa  ?    What  is  the  psychological  importance  of  a  know- 
ledge of  these  stages  ? 

(9)  Explain  the  following  actions  in  the  simplest  possible  way : 
(a)  "  When  a  small  object  is  thrown  on  the  ground  beyond 

the  reach  of  the  elephant,  he  blows  through  his  trunk  on  the 
ground  beyond  the  object,  so  that  the  current  reflected  on  all 
sides  may  drive  the  object  within  his  reach." 


304        Province  and  Relations  of  Psychology 

(b)  "  Hearing  a  loud  knock  at  the  front  door,  I  was  told  not 
to  heed  it,  as  it  was  only  the  kitten  asking  admittance.    I  watched 
for  myself,  and  very  soon  saw  the  kitten  jump  on  to  the  door, 
hang  on  by  one  leg,  and  put  the  other  fore  paw  right  through 
the  knocker  and  rap  twice.1' 

(c)  "  I  knew  a  large  dog  that  was  very  fond  of  grapes,  and  at 
night  used  to  slip  his  collar  in  order  to  satisfy  his  propensity.    It 
was  not  for  some  time  that  the  thief  was  suspected,  owing  to  his 
returning  before  daylight  and  appearing  innocently  chained  up  in 
his  kennel." 

(d)  "Some  of  the  old  bucks  get  the  berries  from  the  thorn- 
trees  in  this  way.     They  will  raise  themselves  on  their  hind  legs, 
give  a  spring,  entangle  their  horns  in  the  lower  branches  of  the 
tree,  give  them  one  or  two  shakes,  and   then  quietly  pick  the 
berries  up." 

(10)  What  evidence  can  you  bring  from  language  that  makes 
for  the  theory  of  the  origin  of  the  aesthetic  sentiment  given  in 
§  120? 

(n)  What  suggestions  has  psychology  to  offer  towards  a 
hygiene,  physical  and  mental,  of  school  life? 

References 

James,  Textbook,  pp.  327-329,  367-369,  Epilogue. 

Sully,  Human  Mind,  vol.  I.,  pp.  10-13,  18-22 ;  vol.  II.,  ch.  xix.. 
App.  G,  H,  K,  L.  See  also  Index,  references  to  'child, 
'animals,1  etc. 

Titchener,  Outline,  §§  5,  6,  99-101. 

Wundt,  Ethics,  vol.  I. 

Wundt,  Z.*rf«rw,Lects.  XXIII.,  XXIV.,  XXVII.,  XXVIII.,  XXX. 

Wundt,  Outlines,  §§  2,  19-21,  22-24. 

Consult  further  the  works  of  J.  M.  Baldwin,  E.  Barnes  (Studies 
in  Education,  Stanford  Univ.),  G.  S.  Hall  {Pedagogical 
Seminary  and  Amer.  Journ.  of  Psych.},  G.  Le  Bon,  T.  W. 
Mills,  K.  C.  Moore  (Psych.  Rev.,  Supplement),  C.  L.  Mor- 
gan. B.  Perez,  W.  Preyer,  G.  J.  Romanes,  M.  W.  Shinn 
(Univ.  of  California  Studies'),  D.  Spalding  (Macmillan's 
Mag.,  1873),  J.  Sully,  F.  Tracy,  E.  Thorndike  (Psych.  Rev., 
Supplement) . 

Consult  also  various  articles  in  Amer.  Jour,  of  Psych.,  Mind, 
Philosophische  Studien,  Psych.  Review,  and  Zeitschrift  f. 
Physiologie  u.  Psychologie  d.  Sinnesorgane. 


APPENDIX    I 

APPARATUS  AND  MATERIALS 

[Pieces  of  apparatus  not  expressly  mentioned  in  the  Questions  and  Exer- 
cises are  printed  here  in  square  brackets.] 

PAGE 

Air- hydrogen  bubble  apparatus 54 

E.  G.  WiUyoung,  82-84  Fulton  St.,  N.  Y.      $12.00. 
[Apparatus  for  passive  movement  at  the  elbow     .    55,  in 
Willyoung.    $8.00.] 

[Association  and  memory  apparatus 139 

Chicago  Laboratory  Supply  Co.,  31-45  W.  Randolph 
Street,  Chicago,  111.  About  $12.00.] 

Beeswax 55 

Blackboard 35,  52,  139 

Black  cardboard  tube  (obtain  from  bookbinder)    .  36 

Black  straws .     .  52 

Bottles,  for  tones S3 

[Brain  models vii 

A  useful  set  of  five  pieces  can  be  obtained  from  E. 
Deyrolle,  46  Rue  du  Bac,  Paris.  Price  of  set,  fr.  200; 
each  piece  separately,  fr.  50.  Imported  models  can 
be  had  from  R.  Kny  &  Co.,  17  Park  Place,  N.  Y., 
or  from  J.  W.  Queen  &  Co.,  1010  Chestnut  Street, 
Philadelphia,  Pa.  An  album  and  a  case  of  stereo- 
scopic slides  of  the  nervous  centres,  by  C.  Debierre 
and  E.  Doumer,  are  sold  by  F.  Alcan,  208  Boulevard 
St.  Germaine,  Paris,  for  fr.  20.] 

Camel's-hair  brushes 55 

Candle  and  matches 36 

Cardboard,  black  and  white 51,  121,  243,  263 

Chamois  leather 5^ 

Coarse  shot 5*> 

Colour  top 51 

For  class  work,  Bradley  small  colour-mixers  (Milton 
Bradley  Co.,  Springfield,  Mass.).  $0.50  per  doz.  For 
demonstration,  Willyoung's  colour  wheel.  $8.00. 

*  305 


306  Appendix  I 

PAGE 

Compasses,  aesthesiometric 118 

Willyoung;  or  Chicago  Laboratory  Supply  Co.  $2.00. 

Compasses,  drawing 52,  120 

Cork  or  pith  points 54 

Home-made;  or  Willyoung,  $0.40. 

Cotton  wool 55 

Cross- section  paper 54 

Fall  chronometer  (home-made) 92 

Glass  funnels,  or  funnel-shaped  wooden  boxes  .     .  56 

Gutta-percha  tubing 53 

Eimer  &  Amend,  205  Third  Avenue,  N.  Y. 

Hand-dynamometer t   .     .  71 

Collin,  6  Rue  de  l'Ecole-de-Medecine,  Paris.  Fr.  25. 
Or  £.  Zimmermann,  21  Emilienstrasse,  Leipzig. 
Mk.  27.50. 

India-rubber 55 

Letters,  printed 92,  139 

Dennison  Mfg.  Co.,  198  Broadway,  N.  Y. 

Metal  tubes  or  rods 54 

Made  by  any  tinsmith;  or  Willyoung.  $2.00.  Chi- 
cago Laboratory  Supply  Co.  $  1.50. 

Metre  scale 54,  71,  118,  120,  121,  243 

Bradley.    $0.01;  postage,  $0.01. 

Paper,  coloured 36,  51,  71 

Milton  Bradley  Co.,  Springfield,  Mass.;  or  Prang  Edu- 
cational Co.,  7  Park  St.,  Boston,  Mass.  Apply  for 
samples  and  priced  catalogue.  Bering's  papers  are 
procurable  from  R.  Rothe,  16  Liebigstrasse,  Leipzig. 

Paper,  white  tissue 52 

Paper,  series  of  black,  grey,  white 52,  71,  2 08 

Bradley;   or  better,  have  made  by  a  photographer. 

Phials,  for  qualities  of  noise 54 

Piano 118,  208 

['  Pseudoptics ' 51,  117  ff. 

A  set  of  materials  for  experiments  in  visual  sensation 
and  perception,  prepared  by  Professor  Miinsterberg. 
Bradley.  $  5.00.  ] 

Quincke's  tubes  (set  of  13) S3 

Ziegler  Electric  Co.,  141  Franklin  Street,  Boston, 
Mass.  $2.00. 


Appendix  I  307 

PACK 

Reaction-timer,  with  side-wire J 183,185,262 

L.    N.   Wilson,   Clark  University,  Worcester,  Mass. 

$5.00. 
Reaction- timer,  colour-disc  for 264 

Wilson.     About  $  2.50. 

Scents,  in  phials 71,  207 

Soap,  for  soap-bubbles 54 

Stereoscope up 

Willyoung.     $  i.oo. 
Stereoscopic  slides up 

Willyoung;  or  Max  Kohl,  5 1  Poststrasse,  Chemnitz  L  S. 
See  catalogue,  p.  132. —  Cf.  Brain  Models,  above. 

Stereoscopic  slides,  celluloid  for 119 

Stop-watch,  or  watch  with  seconds'  hand 

36,  51,  92,  121,  139,  208 

Obtain  from  watchmaker.     About  $6.00. 
Stroboscope 119 

Obtain  from  toy-dealer;  or  Kohl,  cat.,  p.  133.    Mk.  6 
(with  picture  strips). 

Taste  solutions 55,  n8 

[Tilt-table no 

Willyoung.     $25.00.] 

Wire,  fine 53 

Wire,  piece  of  piano 36 

The  teacher  will  do  well  to  procure  in  addition  the  cata- 
logues of  the  following  firms  : 

A.  Appunn,  12  Nurnbergerstrasse,  Hanau  a.  M.     (Acoustic  instr.) 
Cambridge    Instrument   Co.,   St.   Tibb's    Row,    Cambridge,   England. 

(General. ) 

R.  Jung,  Heidelberg.     (Optical  instr.) 
R.  Koenig,  27  Quai  d'Anjou,  Paris.     (Acoustic  instr.) 
W.  Petzold,  13  Bayersche  Strasse,  Leipzig.     (General.) 
C.  Verdin,  7  Rue  Linne,  Paris.     (General.) 

1  Instruments  of  the  1899  model  have  the  side-wire  provided  with  a  clip 
to  hold  the  screen,  while  bar  b  (p.  183)  carries  a  projecting  arm  with  clip 
to  hold  the  stimulus  cards. 


APPENDIX    II 

THE  CORTICAL  CENTRES  (FLECHSIG'S   SCHEME) 

Figures  20,  21   are  drawn,  on  a  reduced  scale,  from  a 
lithographed  plate  in  Flechsig's  Gehirn  und  Seele,  2d  ed., 


FIG.  20 


FIG.  21 


1896.  Fig.  20  shows  the  outer  surface  of  the  right,  Fig.  21 
the  inner  surface  of  the  left,  cerebral  hemisphere.  For  the 
topography  of  the  cortex,  see  F.,  p.  767. 

308 


Appendix  II  309 

The  Arabic  numerals  denote  the  sense-centres,  i  is  the 
centre  for  '  bodily  feeling'  (touch  and  organic  sensations)  ; 
2,  that  for  smell ;  3,  that  for  sight ;  and  4,  that  for  hearing. 

The  smell  centre  is  structurally  the  simplest  (cf.  p.  47, 
sup.)  •  then  follow  in  order  the  centres  for  '  bodily  feeling,' 
hearing  and  sight  {cf.  pp.  38,  42).  The  centre  for  '  bodily 
feeling'  is  the  largest  of  all,  and  has  far  more  numerous 
motor  connections  than  all  the  rest  together;  its  high 
development  is  characteristic  of  the  human  brain.  For  one 
phase  of  its  psychological  importance,  see  p.  225.  —  It  is 
interesting  to  note  that  in  some  of  the  mammalian  orders 
the  smell  centre  is  the  largest,  while  in  certain  catarrhine 
monkeys  the  sight  centre  is  enormously  developed. 

The  taste  centre  has  not  been  finally  localised.  It  prob- 
ably occupies  the  anterior  half  of  the  gyrus  fornicatus. 

The  Roman  numerals  denote  the  association-centres.  I.  is 
the  great  posterior  association-centre,  bounded  by  the  sense- 
centres  of  touch,  sight  and  hearing ;  II.,  the  middle  associa- 
tion-centre, occupying  the  Insula  Reilii,  and  bounded  by 
touch,  hearing  and  smell ;  and  III.,  the  anterior  association- 
centre,  bounded  by  touch  and  smell  (and  taste?).  The 
relatively  high  development  of  this  third  association-centre, 
and  the  surpassing  of  the  sense-centres  by  the  association- 
centres  in  extent,  are  characteristic  of  the  human  brain. 
The  structure  of  all  the  association-centres  is  uniform. 

What  of  the  interconnections  of  these  centres?  Cross 
connections  (from  hemisphere  to  hemisphere)  obtain  be- 
tween the  corresponding  sense-centres  of  each  hemisphere, 
and  between  the  two  posterior  and  anterior  association- 
centres.  The  two  insulae,  however,  are  relatively  separate ; 
their  importance  is  only  local.  Direct  connections  within 
the  same  hemisphere  obtain  between  the  touch  and  smell 
centres ;  but  the  sight -centre  is  very  sparsely  connected, 
whether  with  the  touch  or  with  the  hearing  centre.  The 
anterior  and  posterior  association-centres,  also,  show  very 
little  trace  of  direct  interconnection.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  sense-centres  are  indirectly  connected  by  way  of  the 


310  Appendix  II 

association- centres ;  and  the  two  great  association-centres 
are  held  together  by  the  centre  for  '  bodily  feeling,'  — • 
which  again,  therefore,  evinces  its  supreme  importance  for 
the  centralisation  of  consciousness.  Lastly,  it  should  be 
mentioned  that  every  sense-centre  is  also  a  motor-centre ; 
the  motor  connections  of  the  association-centres  are  only 
indirect. 

Other  articles  by  Professor  Flechsig  will  be  found  in  the 
Bericht  uber  den  jten  internat.  Congress  fur  Psychologic, 
1897,  pp.  49  ff. ;  and  in  the  Neurolog.  Centralblatt,  No- 
vember, 1898.  In  the  latter  paper,  Flechsig  recognises 
three  (not  two)  levels  of  cortical  centres.  Besides  the 
sense-centres  and  the  association-centres  there  are  the  in- 
termediate centres,  composed  of  the  lightly-dotted  portions 
of  the  sense-areas  of  Figs.  20,  21,  and  of  the  adjoining  mar- 
ginal areas  of  the  association-centres.  These  intermediate 
centres  stand  midway  in  order  of  development,  and  presum- 
ably in  function,  between  the  sense-centres  and  the  associa- 
tion-centres proper. 


INDEX 


NAMES   AND   SUBJECTS 


Abstraction,  process  of,  222 ;  concept 
of,  223 ;  see  Idea,  abstract. 

Action,  as  index  of  mind,  16;  and 
movement,  161 ;  definition  of,  162 ; 
attention  the  prime  condition  of, 
163,  169 ;  and  motive,  165 ;  impul- 
sive, 165,  167,  178,  180,  181,  211 ; 
psychomotor,  170 ;  instinctive,  173 ; 
simple  reaction,  179;  development 
of,  beyond  impulse,  245 ;  selective, 
246,  261 ;  volitional,  246,  249,  261 ; 
secondary  psychomotor,  246,  256, 
262;  choice  and  resolve,  251 ;  clas- 
sification of,  258 ;  compound  reac- 
tion, 258. 

./Esthetic  sentiment,  of  beauty,  232, 
238;  of  sublimity,  tragedy  and 
comedy,  238 ;  origin  of,  295. 

./Esthetics,  subject  of,  214;  practical 
utility  of,  240 ;  primitive  and  civil- 
ised art,  241 ;  as  play,  241,  242, 

295- 

Affection,  qualities  of,  57, 68 ;  physio- 
logical basis  of,  58,  68,  91 ;  defini- 
tion of,  58;  bodily  signs  of,  62; 
and  sensation,  64,  83 ;  idea  of,  66 ; 
and  attention,  68,  81,  83,  93;  in 
feeling,  59;  in  emotion,  150;  in 
sentiment,  233. 

Animal  psychology,  17,  176 ;  the  old 
and  the  new,  290;  materials  of, 
291 ;  method  of,  292. 

Aphasia,  283. 

Apperception,  as  selective  percep- 
tion, 85,  88 ;  explanation  of,  86,  87  ; 
illusions  of,  52,  117, 128. 

Aristotle,  32. 

Art,  in  ethnic  psychology,  275;  see 
.(Esthetics. 

Assimilation,  101,  141;  in  emotion, 
143 ;  in  recognition,  190. 


Association  of  ideas,  law  of,  130; 
forms  of,  131,  132,  134;  formula 
of,  131,  133;  sensation  and  idea, 
131 ;  and  perception,  131 ;  simul- 
taneous, 132;  successive,  134; 
physiological  conditions  of,  136; 
law  of,  in  dreaming,  269. 

Association  centres  of  cortex,  90,  98, 

3°9- 

Attention,  a  state  of  consciousness, 
20,  74;  necessary  in  introspection, 
34,74;  and  affection,  68, 81,83,91 ; 
problem  of,  73 ;  two  sides  of,  74, 
84;  to  and  from  ideas,  75,  101; 
passive,  76,  79,  187,  203,  205,  250, 
251 ;  active,  76,  80,  187,  204,  231, 
245,  248,  251;  secondary  passive, 
77,  80,  81,  194,  205,  231,  248,  252; 
and  bodily  tendency,  79;  bodily 
attitude  in,  84 ;  duration  of,  88, 91 ; 
range  of,  89 ;  physiological  condi- 
tions of,  90 ;  as  condition  of  action, 
163,  269;  neglected  by  the  older 
psychology,  164;  in  reaction  ex- 
periments, 179;  direction  of,  in 
reaction,  181 ;  and  habit,  196;  ab- 
sent in  dreaming,  269,  271 ;  in 
hypnosis,  273. 

Autosuggestion,  274. 

Bateman,  F.,  283. 

Belief,  analysis  of,  335. 

Berkeley,  G.,  220. 

Bethe,  A.,  176. 

Binet,  A.,  176. 

Bodily  posture,  perception  of,  109; 
in  emotion,  143 ;  in  attention,  84. 

Bodily  tendency,  and  mental  consti- 
tution, 78;  natural  and  acquired, 
79;  and  the  forms  of  attention,  79; 
and  apperception,  88. 


312 


Index 


Body, and  mind,  12, 18,  22;  and  the 
idea  of  self,  225 ;  see  Physiology. 

Braid,  J.,  272. 

Brain,  the  organ  of  mind,  13,  14,  17; 
of  man  and  animals,  14;  state  of, 
in  mental  derangement,  15,  279; 
see  Physiology. 

Brightness,  sensations  of,  38 ;  their 
relation  to  colour  sensations,  39; 
system  of  sensations,  40;  the- 
ory of,  42;  extent  of  sensation, 
100. 

Burnett,  Mrs.  F.  H.,  83. 

Catelepsy,  272. 

Cataplexy,  274. 

Chess,  249. 

Child  psychology,  two  branches  of, 
288;  investigation  of  fatigue  in 
school  hours,  289 ;  two  desiderata 
in,  289 ;  and  adult  psychology,  290 ; 
and  pedagogy,  298. 

Children's  lies,  202 ;  vocabulary,  126. 

Choice,  definition  of,  252;  analysis 
of,  252 ;  in  everyday  life,  253. 

Clang,  perception  of,  104. 

Cognition,  199. 

Colour,  series  of,  39;  relation  of,  to 
brightness,  39 ;  system  of  sensa- 
tions, 40 ;  theory  of,  42 ;  extent  of 
sensation,  100. 

Comfort,  necessary  in  introspection, 

34- 

Comparison,  analysis  of,  221;  con- 
cept of,  222. 

Concept,  definition  of,  219 ;  develop- 
ment of,  223 ;  of  attribute,  224 ;  of 
self,  224,  226. 

Consciousness,  definition  of,  19; 
states  of,  20,  73;  complete  and 
incomplete,  163,  165 ;  double,  276. 

Contrast,  visual,  52. 

Cooper,  J.  F.,  85,  146. 

Cramming,  196. 

Custom,  in  ethnic  psychology,  294; 
law,  morality,  and  religion,  294. 

Darwin,  C,  145,  288. 
Deliberation,  251. 
Dementia,  282. 
Dickens,  C.,  63,  65,  203. 
Direct  apprehension,  recognition  and 
memory,  199 ;  analysis  of,  200. 


Distance,  perception  of,  109 ;  assimi- 
lation of,  133. 

Donaldson,  H.,  98. 

Dreaming,  a  state  of  consciousness, 
20;  abnormal,  266;  peripherally 
aroused,  267,  268;  generally  visual, 
267,  268 ;  fantastic  arrangement  of 
ideas  in,  269,  276 ;  incidents  taken 
for  granted  in,  270;  bodily  condi- 
tions of,  271 ;  and  sleepwalking, 
271;  and  hypnosis,  273;  and  in- 
sanity, 278. 

Duration,  of  sensation,  99 ;  of  atten- 
tion, 88 ;  of  emotion  and  mood, 
142;  of  reaction,  180,  261. 


Ear,  organ  of  hearing,  43 ;  organ  of 
equilibrium,  44;  a  piano,  44; 
primitive,  43,  45;  time  value  of 
hearing  sensations,  113,  213. 

Education,  problem  of,  79 ;  intellec- 
tual progress,  81 ;  of  imagination, 

/202. 

Effort,  in  active  attention,  85 ;  in  im- 
pulse, 170. 

Elements,  mental,  21,  22;  not  to  be 
separately  experienced,  21 ;  laws 
of  connection  of,  22,  130,  188 ;  sen- 
sations, 37;  affections,  57. 

Emotion,  expression  of,  62,  144,  146, 
149,  211 ;  instances  of,  70,  143; 
formation  of,  141,  143 ;  and  mood, 
141,  142;  and  feeling,  141,  144, 
145;  classification  of,  150,  152; 
qualitative,  150;  temporal,  150, 
153;  cardinal,  151,  154;  develop- 
ment of,  154 ;  mixed,  155  ;  and  im- 
pulse, 169,  21 1 ;  and  instinct,  175; 
and  sentiment,  230. 

Ethics,  and  psychology,  233,  296; 
normative,  298. 

Ethnic  psychology,  definition  of,  292 ; 
problem  of,  293;  and  ethics,  296. 

Excitation,  nervous,  13,  30. 

Experiment,  definition  of,  26;  in 
psychology,  30;  instance  of  psy- 
chological, 30,  32;  requires  sub- 
ject and  experimenter,  31 ;  see 
Questions  and  exercises. 

Extent,  of  sensation,  100;  range  of 
attention,  89 ;  affection  as  '  wide ' 
as  consciousness,  65,  83,  155. 


Index 


313 


Eye,  sensations  from,  38;  a  photo- 
graphic camera,  39 ;  physiological 
theory  of,  42;  as  space  organ,  106, 
107, 109,  in,  117. 

Familiarity,  analysis  of,  190,  192. 
Fatigue,  hostile  to  introspection,  34 ; 

see  Child  psychology. 
Feeling,  definition  of,  59 ;  law  of,  60 ; 

place  of  sensation  in,  59,  66,  70; 

various  meanings  of  word,  61, 142; 

of  drowsiness  analysed,  61 ;   and 

emotion,  141, 144, 145 ;  and  mood, 

141,  142;   higher  and  lower,  153, 

233 ;  mixed,  155. 
Flechsig,   P.,  90,  91,    98,    225,   284, 

308  ff. 

Forgetfuiness,  195. 
Fusion,  of  sensations,  103,  146. 

Galen,  158. 

General  paresis,  282. 

Genius,  218. 

Gesture,  and  primitive  language,  148, 

213;  two  kinds  of,  211. 
Giddiness,  sensation  of,  44,  no. 

Habit,  law  of,  136, 195, 198 ;  levels  of, 
196;  and  attention,  196. 

Hawthorne,  N.,  206. 

tiering,  £.,  41,  52. 

Hesitation,  251. 

Hippocrates,  158. 

Hobbes,  T.,  135. 

Hume,  D.,  156,  157.  235. 

Huxley,  T.  //.,  24. 

Hypnotism,  as  staf  of  conscious- 
ness, ao;  definition  of,  271;  three 
stages  of  hypnosis,  211 ;  physiology 
and  psychology  of,272 ;  and  dream- 
ing, 273 ;  always  self-hypnotism, 
273 ;  all  sane  persons  hypnotisable, 
274 ;  of  animals,  274 ;  rapport,  275 ; 
double  consciousness,  276;  post- 
hypnotic  suggestion,277 ;  therapeu- 
tic value  of,  277 ;  and  insanity,  278. 

Idea,  observation  of  an,  7 ;  in  state  of 
attention,75 ;  formation  of,  94 ;  how 
different  from  perception,  95;  in- 
fluence of  conscious  background 
on,  97 ;  cerebral  localisation  of,  98 ; 
as  reproduction  and  translation  of 


perception,  122 ;  train  of  ideas,  135, 
141 ;  of  own  movement  in  impulse, 
165, 170 ;  of  result  of  movement,  in 
impulse,  167,  171 ;  and  memory, 
189,  206 ;  and  imagination  ,201 ,206 ; 
aggregate,  218;  abstract,  219;  of 
self,  225 ;  in  dreams,  267,  270 ;  see 
Association  of  Ideas,  Memory  type. 
Ideomotor  action,  171 ;  secondary, 

257. 

Idiocy,  281. 

Illusion,  of  form,  115;  of  size,  116; 
of  direction,  117 ;  apperceptive,  52, 
117,  128. 

Imagery,  mental,  201;  as  visualisa- 
tion, 201 ;  dangers  of,  201 ;  two 
forms  of,  202. 

Imagination,  active,  187,  204,  215; 
passive,  187,  203;  and  memory, 
205-,  limits  of,  206;  and  images, 
207;  affective  processes  in,  202, 
207 ;  and  thought,  214. 

Imbecility,  281. 

Impartiality,  necessary  in  introspec- 
tion, 34. 

Impulse,  typical  motive,  165,  178; 
and  idea  of  own  movement,  165, 
170 ;  and  idea  of  result,  167,  171 ; 
definition  of,  169;  and  emotion, 
169,  211 ;  and  psychomotor  action, 
170 ;  and  reflex  movement,  171 ; 
and  instinct,  174 ;  earlier  than  re- 
flex and  instinct,  176;  classifi- 
cation of  human,  177 ;  rivalry  of 
complex,  in  selective  action,  247 ; 
rivalry  of,  with  idea,  249;  and  sec- 
ondary psychomotor  action,  256; 
and  automatic  movement,  257; 
see  Reaction. 

Incentive,  165,  167,  169,  174. 

Inducement,  165,  167,  168, 174. 

Insanity,  dreaming  and  hypnosis, 
278;  physiological  conditions  of, 
279;  forms  of,  281;  study  of,  282. 

Instinct,  as  motive,  174;  impulse  and 
emotion,  175 ;  classification  of  hu- 
man, 177;  in  animal  psychology, 
292. 

Intellectual  sentiment,  233,  234,  339; 
oscillatory,  234,  251;  analysis  of 
belief,  235. 

Intensity  of  sensation,  49. 

Interest,  82. 


Index 


Introspection,  vs.  inspection,  27; 
must  be /^^  mortem,  28;  'morbid,' 
29;  experimental,  the  method  of 
psychology,  32,  287;  special  rules 
for,  33 ;  general  rules  for,  34. 

Jackson,  H.,  164.  [235. 

James,  W.,  25, 114, 171, 173, 175, 197, 
Jevons,  W.  S,,  197. 
Judgment,  formation  of,  215 ;  of  rare 

occurrence,  217,  248 ;    peculiar  to 

man,  218. 

Laboratory,  the  Leipzig,  32. 

Language,  as  index  of  mind,  16; 
metaphors  in  primitive,  147;  as 
expressive  of  emotion,  211 ;  origin 
of,  212;  possible  only  in  society, 
16,  212;  development  of,  213,  293; 
see  Gesture,  Word. 

Law,  in  society,  as  index  of  mind, 
16,  294;  of  connection  of  mental 
elements,  22, 103,  130. 

Lehmann,  A.,  169, 175. 

Locke,  J.,  219. 

Logic,  subject  of,  214;  and  psychol- 
ogy of  thought,  221 ;  and  psychol- 
ogy, 297 ;  a  normative  science,  298. 

Lytton,  E.  B.,  203. 

Mach,  E.,  226. 

Mania,  281. 

Meaning,  attaches  to  concrete  pro- 
cesses, 95,  104,  114, 134,  212;  psy- 
chological basis  of,  95,  191 ;  ab- 
stracted by  logic,  297. 

Melancholia,  282. 

Memory,  affective,  129;  active,  187, 
193;  passive,  187,  189,  190;  and 
idea,  189,  206;  definition  of,  189, 
199;  degrees  of,  192;  physiology 
of,  195 ;  as  retention,  reproduction, 
and  recognition,  197 ;  and  imagina- 
tion, 205. 

Memory  type,  definition  of,  123; 
visual,  124, 127 ;  auditory,  124, 127 ; 
tactual  or  motor,  124, 127 ;  mixed, 
125,  127;  verbal,  126;  taste  and 
smell,  128 ;  organic,  128. 

Mental  constitution,  definition  of,  78 ; 
indications  of,  78;  and  the  forms 
of  attention,  79 ;  natural  and  ac- 
quired, 79 ;  see  Bodily  tendency. 


Mental  processes,  mind  is  sum  of,  7 ; 
instances  of,  7,  12;  definition  of, 
10,  15 ;  and  the  facts  of  science, 
ii ;  classification  of,  19,  37;  con- 
crete, 20, 70, 94 ;  elementary,  ai,  22, 
37-69- 

Mercier,  C.,  225,  280,  281. 

Mind,  the  subject  of  psychology,  i,  4 ; 
popular  notion  of,  4 ;  psychological 
definition  of,  5,  6 ;  composition  of, 
7;  and  brain,  13;  possessed  by 
man  and  animals,  15 ;  rudiment- 
ary, 16 ;  not  a  function  of  brain, 
17;  conditioned  by  body,  18,  22, 
30 ;  divisions  of,  19 ;  child,  adult, 
and  senile,  19 ;  and  consciousness, 
19;  logical  reconstruction  of,  21; 
and  nature,  95, 163 ;  animal,  17, 77, 
79,  81,  176,  218,  292 ;  child,  77,  79, 
81,  290;  pathology  of,  278;  col- 
lective, 292. 

Mood,  feeling  and  emotion,  141, 142; 
and  train  of  ideas,  141 ;  qualitative, 
151;  of  indifference,i52 ;  temporal, 
154 ;  of  recognition,  190,  191 ;  of 
direct  apprehension,  200 ;  of  imag- 
ination, 207. 

Motive,  composition  of,  165,  166;  as 
impulse,i6s ;  instances  of,  167, 168. 

Movement,  perception  of,  no;  as 
psychological  phenomenon,  161, 
162,  172;  definition  of,  163;  ex- 
pressive, 144, 146,  170;  reflex,  171, 
176, 180 ;  involuntary,  172, 258 ;  in- 
stinctive, 173, 177 ;  physiology  and 
psychology  of,  175, 177 ;  automatic 
or  secondary  reflex,  246,  256,  262. 

Muscle  and  tendon,  independent 
functions  of,  48. 

Muscular  strength,  index  of  affection, 

63- 

Music,  43, 44,  105. 

Myth,  in  ethnic  psychology,  293, 295 ; 
anthropomorphism  of,  294. 

Nervous  system,  13, 90  f.,  95,  98, 164, 

177,  225,  284,  308  ff. 
Noise,  sensation  of,  43. 

Objective  and  subjective,  applied  to 
sensation  and  affection,  66;  in 
emotion  and  sentiment,  151,  154, 
234,  236,  237. 


Index 


315 


Observation,  in  all  science,  24;  in 
psychology,  27. 

Organic  sensations,  47 ;  and  Wundt's 
affective  qualities,  70 ;  in  emotion, 
143 ;  and  memory  type,  128. 

Pain,  sensation  of,  45, 46,  47,  67. 

Parallelism,  principle  of,  18. 

Paranoia,  282. 

Pater,  W.,  205. 

Pedagogy,  normative,  298 ;  and  his- 
tory of  education,  298;  and  child 
study,  298. 

Perception,  observation  of  a,  8 ;  and 
affection,  60 ;  range  of  attention  to, 
89 ;  formation  of,  94 ;  how  different 
from  idea,  95 ;  cortical  localisation 
of,  98 ;  three  classes  of,  98 ;  quali- 
tative, 99, 100,  103 ;  spatial,  99, 100, 
106,  107,  109,  no,  115 ;  temporal, 
99,  loo,  112;  pure  and  symbolic, 
101 ;  differentiates  the  world,  1 14 ; 
illusory,  115;  and  association,^ i ; 
of  self,  224. 

Pestalozti,  J.  H.,  288. 

Physiology,  brain  and  nervous  sys- 
tem, 13,  14,  17,30,33,42,90,91,95, 
98,  164,  177,  225,  279,  284,  308  ff. ; 
importance  of,  in  psychology,  18 ; 
of  sensation,  39,  42,  44,  45,  46,  47, 
48;  of  affection,  58, 63,  68,  91,  144, 
146,  149 ;  of  bodily  tendency,  79 ; 
of  attention,  84,  90 ;  of  association, 
136;  of  habit,  137,  195,  198;  of 
movement,  172, 175,  177;  of  mem- 
ory, 165 ;  of  retention,  198 ;  of 
sleep,  266;  of  dreaming,  271;  of 
hypnosis,  272. 

Pleasantness  and  unpleasantness,  the 
two  affective  qualities,  58,  70,  150 ; 
biological  significance  of,  58. 

Poe,  E.  A.,  136,  206. 

Position,  perception  of,  107. 

Pressure,  from  skin,  45;  from  mu- 
cous membrane,  46;  from  muscles, 
47;  from  joint,  47;  in  drowsiness, 
6 1 ;  as  extended,  100 ;  space  value 
of,  108,  109,  no,  in ;  time  value 
of,  113. 

Process,  compared  with  thing,  6; 
physiological  and  psychological, 
10,  13 ;  tte  Mental  process,  Mind. 

Psychology,  meaning  of  word,  i ;  is 


a  science,  3,  287, 300 ;  subject  of,  4, 
7 ;  and  physiology,  17 ;  problem  of, 
22 ;  method  of,  24  ff.,  32,  35,  287 ; 
and  logic,  221, 297 ;  abnormal,  266, 
287 ;  scope  of,  286 ;  standard,  286, 
288;  child,  287,  288;  animal,  287, 
290;  ethnic,  287,  292;  ethics  and 
logic,  295;  and  pedagogy,  298; 
difference  of  opinion  in,  301. 

Psychomotor  action,  formation  of, 
170 ;  secondary,  246,  256. 

Pulse,  index  of  affection,  63. 

Questions  and  exercises,  22,  35,  51, 
71,  91, 118,  138,  159,  182,  207,  228, 
243,  262,  284,  303. 

Rapport,  hypnotic,  275. 

Reaction,  simple,  179 ;  sensorial,  179, 
181,  182;  muscular,  180, 181 ;  cen- 
tral, 180, 181, 182 ;  association,  182 ; 
discrimination,  260 ;  cognition, 260; 
choice,  261 ;  automatic,  262. 

Reasoning,  216. 

Recognition,  passive,  188, 190 ;  pleas- 
urable, 191 ;  illustrates  '  meaning,' 
191 ;  degrees  of,  192 ;  active,  193 ; 
in  the  older  psychology,  198. 

Recollection,  195. 

References,  23, 36,  51,  72, 93,  121, 140, 
1 60, 186, 210,  229,  244,  265,  285,304. 

Reflex  movement,  development  of, 
171,  175;  secondary,  257. 

Relation,  instances  of,  222;  concept 
of,  223. 

Religious  sentiment,  232,  237,  239; 
relation  of,  to  social,  287. 

Repetition,  effect  of,  on  sensation  and 
affection,  67. 

Reproduction,  122,  198. 

Resistance,  perception  of,  104. 

Resolve,  definition  of,  252 ;  instance 
of,  254. 

Respiration,  sensations  of.  47 ;  index 
of  affection.  63. 

Retention,  197. 

Rhythm,  perception  of,  112. 

Science,  definition  of,  2 ;  instances  of, 
2 ;  psychology  is  a,  3,  287,  300. 

Self,  perception  of,  224 ;  idea  of,  225 ; 
abstract  idea  of,  226;  concept  of, 
226. 

Self-con jciousness,  definition  of,  aay ; 


316 


Index 


in  old  and  new  psychology,  227 ; 
as  nervousness,  228. 

Selective  action,  definition  of,  245 ; 
progressive  development  of,  246; 
of  daily  life,  248. 

Sensation,  definition  of,  37 ;  not  ob- 
tainable singly,  21, 37  ;  central  and 
peripheral,  33,37,95;  classification 
of,  37 ;  from  eye,  38  ;  from  ear,  42 ; 
from  skin,  45;  from  mouth  and 
nose,  46 ;  from  internal  organs,  47 ; 
quality  of,  37  ft,  49 ;  intensity  of, 
49 ;  in  feeling,  59,  66,  77 ;  and  af- 
fection, 64,  83 ;  extent  and  duration 
of,  99;  motor,  in,  124;  and  asso- 
ciation, 131. 

Sense  centres  of  cortex,  90,  98,  309. 

Sensorimotor  action,  171,  178,  181, 
262. 

Sentiment  and  emotion,  230;  forma- 
tion of,  230,  252;  forms  of,  231; 
intellectual,  232,  234;  social,  232, 
236  ;  religious,  232,  236 ;  aesthetic, 

232,  238 ;  practical  importance  of, 

233.  24°. 

Shakespeare,  65,68,143, 147,  155, 157, 
239,  250,  254. 

Skin,  function  of,  45;  perception  of 
locality  on,  106. 

Sleep,  physiology  and  psychology  of, 
266. 

Smell,  sensations  of,  46 ;  organs  of, 
46. 

Social  sentiments,  232,  236,  239 ;  re- 
lation of,  to  religious,  237. 

Solidity,  perception  of,  109. 

Somnambulism,  272. 

Sound,  localisation  of,  132. 

Specific  character  of  concrete  pro- 
cesses, 69. 

Spencer,  H.,  295. 

Stimulus,  definition  of,  13;  function 
of,  in  experiment,  30. 

Suggestion,  36,  212,  228,  275,  377. 

,  y.,  157, 169, 239. 


Talent,  218. 

Taste,  sensations  of,  46 ;  relation  of, 
to  smell,  46;  organs  of,  46;  per- 
ception of,  104. 

Temperament,  157 ;  see  Mental  con- 
stitution. 

Temperature,  sensations  of,  45,  46; 
in  tickling,  48 ;  in  drowsiness,  61. 

Tennyson,  A.,  253. 

Thackeray,  W.  Af.,  159,  203. 

Thought,  various  uses  of  word,  213 ; 
definition  of,  214 ;  and  active  imagi- 
nation, 214;  judgment  and  reason- 
ing, 215 ;  logic  and  psychology  of, 

221. 

Tickling,  48. 

Time,  present,  and  consciousness.ig ; 
duration  of  attention,  88 ;  of  sensa- 
tion, 99;  temporal  perception,  99, 
100,  112;  temporal  emotion,  150, 
153 ;  duration  of  simple  reaction, 
1 80;  of  cognition  reaction,  261. 

Tone,  sensation  of,  43 ;  system  of,  43. 

Tradition,  influence  of,  on  sentiment, 
231 ;  on  selective  action,  249. 

Verworn,  M.,  176. 

Volitional  action,  definition  of,  246, 

249 ;  degeneration  of,  249. 
Volume  of  body,  index  of  affection, 

63- 

Weber,  E.  H.,  51. 

Weber's  law,  49,  50;  usefulness  of, 
50;  explanation  of,  51. 

Will,  definition  of,  254 ;  psychologi- 
cal arguments  for  freedom  of,  254 ; 
against,  255. 

Word,  importance  of  idea,  123, 126; 
verbal  association,  133 ;  the  earliest 
words,  213;  vs.  gesture,  213;  and 
image,  214;  development  of,  214; 
thought  and,  215. 

Wundt,  W.,  32,  68,  69,  70,  169,  213, 
296. 


AN  OUTLINE  OF  PSYCHOLOGY. 

BY 

EDWARD  BRADFORD   TITCHENER,  A.M.,  Ph.D., 
Safe  Professor  of  Psychology  at  the  Cornell  University. 

Second  Edition  with  Corrections. 
8vo.    Cloth.    $1.50,  net. 


"  As  a  contribution  both  able  and  useful,  Professor  Titchener's  volume  will  unques- 
tionably find,  as  it  deserves,  a  most  cordial  welcome.  In  many  ways  it  is  the  most  ser- 
viceable text-book  of  psychology  from  a  modern  scientific  point  of  view  that  has  been 
written.  The  author  is  an  experimentalist,  but  clings  to  the  special  interpretation  of 
certain  fundamental  principles  which  is  characteristic  of  Wundt  and  his  disciples.  The 
result  of  this  definite  position  is  to  make  the  work  clear,  exact  in  expression,  systematic, 
methodical.  The  work  is  thoroughly  good  and  useful."  —  JOSEPH  JASTROW,  university 
of  Wisconsin,  in  the  Dial. 


A  PRIMER  OF  PSYCHOLOGY. 

BY 

EDWARD  BRADFORD  TITCHENER, 
H.A.  (Oxon.),  Ph.D.  (Leipzig), 

Sage  Professor  of  Psychology  in  the  Cornell  University. 
izmo.    Cloth.     $1.00,  net. 


This  volume  is  intended  as  a  first  book  in  psychology.  It  will  therefore  seek 
to  accomplish  the  two  main  ends  of  a  scientific  primer  of  the  subject ;  to  out- 
line, with  as  little  of  technical  detail  as  is  compatible  with  accuracy  of  state- 
ment, the  methods  and  most  important  results  of  modern  psychology,  and  to 
furnish  the  reader  with  references  for  further  study.  It  will  be  written  with 
direct  regard  to  the  courses  of  psychological  instruction  offered  in  Normal 
Schools  and  High  Schools,  but  will  at  the  same  time  be  made  sufficiently  com- 
prehensive to  give  the  general  student  a  fair  idea  of  the  present  status  of 
psychology  in  its  various  branches. 

A  novel  feature  of  the  work  will  be  the  emphasis  laid  on  the  experimental 
method.  A  short  list  of  simple  and  inexpensive  apparatus  will  be  given,  with 
directions  for  their  use  in  the  class-room,  and  the  experiments  described  will  be 
such  as  can  be  performed  by  their  aid  or  by  help  of  others  that  can  readily  be 
constructed  by  the  teacher  himself.  Diagrams,  psychological  not  physiological 
in  character,  will  be  freely  used  in  illustration  of  the  text. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY, 

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THE  CHILD  AND  CHILDHOOD 

IN   FOLK-THOUGHT. 

(The  Child  in  Primitive  Culture.) 

Studies  of  the  Activities  and  Influences  of  the  Child  among: 

Primitive  Peoples,  their  Analogues  and  Survivals 

in  the  Civilization  of  To-day. 

BY 

ALEXANDER  FRANCIS  CHAMBERLAIN,  MA.,  Ph.D., 
Lecturer  OH  Anthropology  in  Clark  University,  Worcester,  Mass. ;  etc.,  tte 

8vo.    Cloth.    $3.00,  net. 


"It  is  an  exhaustive  study  of  " child  thought "  in  all  ages,  and 
will  fully  interest  every  class  of  students  in  child  study.  .  .  .  The 
teacher  of  kindergarten  will  find  texts  of  value  upon  every  page  of 
the  book." —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  It  is,  of  course,  keenly  interesting.  One  can  turn  to  the  copious 
index  and  select  a  topic  here,  topic  there,  turn  to  pages  indicated, 
and  find  a  wonderful  amount  of  information  drawn  from  authentic 
sources  by  patient  scientific  investigation.  This  investigation 
covers  the  entire  range  of  childhood,  child  life,  child  care,  and  child 
development."  —  Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  The  author  is  an  anthropologist,  whose  dominant  interest  and 
training  are  the  philology,  rites,  customs,  and  beliefs  of  primitive 
people.  The  book  is  the  first  and  only  one  of  the  kind  in  English, 
and  is  sure  to  fascinate  parents  of  young  children  as  well  as  to  in- 
struct all  teachers  and  psychologists.  It  marks  a  distinct  advance 
in  child  study."  —  American  Journal  of  Psychology. 

"  Not  the  least  valuable  thing  about  the  book  is  its  suggestiveness. 
There  is  hardly  a  section  that  does  not  furnish  a  subject  for  detailed 
investigation  to  the  anthropological  psychologist."  —  Mind. 


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